


Danger in the Daylight

by Sanguis



Series: The Bells Are Ringing Out [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Harry, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M, Multi, Not Beta Read, Queer Characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24320593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanguis/pseuds/Sanguis
Summary: [On Hiatus] New challenges await Harry in his sixth year, but Voldemort likes to make himself a problem, a thorn in everybody's side that simply persists. Harry, however, is also persistent.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Godric Gryffindor/Salazar Slytherin, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley
Series: The Bells Are Ringing Out [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1129283
Comments: 46
Kudos: 58





	1. The First

**Author's Note:**

> Hey kippetjes, how are we doing in these times of plague and pestilence?
> 
> I'm sorry it took so long to get this out. 2020 nearly killed me before COVID-19 cared to hop borders, but I'm still here. I've finally managed to get into a routine of writing, but as I'm still uncertain when I can resume work, I don't know how long this will last. I will do my best to finish this story within this time limit, but chances are I won't quite get there.
> 
> In the mean time, enjoy our final romp!

Under the light of the stars and several floating candles, Harry’s sixth year at Hogwarts begins smoothly. The hall is full of chatter, though more muted than years before; Harry can see it on his fellow students’ faces: they’ve seen the shadow of war, and they fear it. Here and there he even hears some whisper of how their parents had wanted to pull them from school, and he bites his tongue not to ask them  _ where _ they’d want to escape to.

Once in a while, his eyes flitter to Draco, all the way across the hall. The head of platinum is unmistakable, as is the regal posture and cold stare. Draco sits in a pit of vipers with his head held high, not that this makes Harry any less nervous.

An elbow jabbed into his ribs. Hermione glares him down; he’s staring too much, too worried. Draco will be fine.

“I know,” Harry murmurs.

He’d intercepted his friends at the entrance. He’s twice missed a train ride with them now, hadn’t even realised how much of a tradition it had become for them. Seeing them again has done him a world of good.

Unexpectedly, Hermione had hugged Draco tightly before they’d parted ways. As alarmed as Draco had been at the touch, he’d lightly hugged her back, had even returned Ron’s awkward little wave.

Now they wait for McGonagall and the first-years, and Harry can’t help but shake his legs. It’s half a miracle the entire table doesn’t move along with him. Ginny throws him a look like she  _ knows _ , but she turns away to speak with Neville—tall, confident-looking Neville, who by the looks of it just went through another growth-spurt. It’s almost magical what one summer can do; all the baby-fat is gone, and it’s just too bad that Harry’s type is tall, blond, and haughty.

“Hey, Nev,” says Harry, leaning in. “How’s things? You know, with your parents?”

“Oh!” Neville beams at him. “They’re all right. A bit shaken up still. Mum can’t wrap it around her head that I’m all grown up now. To her it was just yesterday that I was a toddler.” His gaze turns distant. “It’s weird, you know? I always knew they loved me, but…”

“It wasn’t really tangible,” Harry murmurs. They share a look of understanding; even if Neville’s parents had been alive all this time, physically present, aware enough to give Neville at least gum wrappers, their minds had been completely lost, too far away from reality.

But looking at Neville now, grinning, almost unburdened by that shadow, things may actually turn out all right. Even good.

Harry’s eyes flit back to Draco. This time their eyes meet, and Draco inclines his head slightly. He’s fine, too.

“Oh, by the way.” Ron leans in, “Did you know dad got promoted?”

“No!” Harry beams at Ron. “What the hell, that’s fantastic!”

“Yeah,” Ron says proudly. “He’s heading the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects—big job, ten people reporting to him.”

“Big name, too,” says Harry. “But what exactly—”

The doors burst open, and in comes Professor McGonagall with a messy line of tiny human beings starting their very first term at Hogwarts. There’s not as many as the years before, and when Harry glances up at the staff table, he can see his parents frowning, Godric in particular counting the children. He then whispers in Salah’s ear; she nods. Some parents must have pulled their children from Hogwarts.

_ Other countries don’t have a Voldemort problem. _ Granted, if Voldemort wins, he’s everybody’s problem.

He turns back to Ron, expectant. “What’s this new job all about?”

“Well, you know how You-Know-Who has everyone in a fright? People have been doing odd things, putting stuff for sale that’s supposed to guard off against Death Eaters and such.” Ron shakes his head. “Mostly it’s harmless; potions that are just gravy, jinxes that make your ears ring...but once in a while, someone comes up with something truly nasty, like a box of cursed Sneakoscopes—”

McGonagall calls the first name. One of the tinies scrabbles up to the Hat, and is promptly sorted into Ravenclaw. The next goes to Hufflepuff—a rather tall first-year, with a round face that gives away how young she is.

“I half-expect there to be another Salah among them,” Hermione says quietly.

“God, spare us,” Ron mutters.

A little girl by the name of Chidester, Elicia is sorted into Slytherin. The entire hall falls silent, with only some lackluster clapping from the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, and a bit more vigour from the Slytherins. Harry takes to clapping for her because she  _ deserves _ to be proud of her House, no matter the idiotic school politics that she had nothing to do with, let alone comprehend.

Little Miss Chidester is nervous, he can tell. Her eyes dart around the hall, her shoulders are hunched. Draco moves aside and gestures for her to sit with him. Between him and Millicent Bulstrode, she’ll be all right.

“I know this is terrible,” Neville says, “but at least no one’s booing.”

The rest of the sorting goes like that, with their little group—Harry, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, even Ron, clapping for the new Slytherins. At one point Seamus and Dean join in, but it stays there, with the rest of the Gryffindors merely watching, and sometimes throwing them dirty looks.

The teachers are more neutral, even Snape. Each time Harry claps for a Slytherin, he feels Dumbledore’s gaze on him, but he won’t give in and look back. If love was the last gift his mother had granted him, then Harry would extend it to compassion for all these children trapped in a battle they never asked for.

At the end, Draco and Millicent have an entire clutch of first-years between them. Around them sit at least half a dozen or so of Salah’s baby Slytherins from last year, like a shield from all the others giving them the stink-eye. If they can intercept them before some of the older Slytherins get to them, if they could help them adjust…

“Hermione,” Harry says, “what do you think of tutoring the baby Slytherins?”

She frowns at him. “Why? The year’s barely started, Harry.”

“Unity,” he says. “We show them we don’t hate them just because of their House colours. Isn’t that what the Hat always says? That we should stand together as a school?” Her eyebrows go up, face now pensive. Harry pushes on, “Some of them are bound to be half-bloods, or born of non-magical parents. They’ll be eaten alive. But if we show them that they belong here regardless…” He looks at Ron for support.

“Oh, no, no,” says Ron. “I’m not tutoring anybody.”

“It’s all right, Ronald,” Hermione says, still in the middle of a thought. “You won’t have to. We’ll just pick up where Salah left off.”

Pleased, Harry sits back and waits for the feast to actually start. He’s starving, but at least he’s thrown one good idea out there. Draco looks at him with narrowed eyes, grows even more suspicious when all Harry does is respond with a wink.

With the sorting over, they can dive into their food. Tonight the elves treat them to paella with a side of gazpacho, which  _ surely _ has to be Salah’s doing. Several students look bewildered, but luckily none of it is actually hot, despite the new palette of spices and herbs they’re unfamiliar with.

“This is  _ delicious,” _ Ron says with his mouth half-full. “More of  _ this!” _

“Strong tastes,” Neville nods. “I don’t think I was ready.”

Harry eats as if he hasn’t seen food in days; if this is going to be Hogwarts’ new cuisine, then he is all for it. In the meantime, he completely ignores the star-struck first-years, their whispers of  _ Chosen One _ , and the ever-present need to punch a  _ Prophet _ reporter or two. Or three.

It’s Seamus who gets his attention after a while. “Hey, Harry, I’m—”

“It’s fine, Seamus,” Harry says.

“No, but really,” Seamus insists. “I’m sorry. I was a right shit. A scared shit, but a shit nonetheless. You didn’t deserve that.”

As far as apologies go, that is one of the sincerest ones Harry has encountered in a while. He nods, says, “Yeah, you were,” and that’s that. He can bury the hatchet.

Sometime later, he reaches the point of regret, the point where he is going to burst and he possibly can’t stand anymore. Ron is still enjoying the sweetness of the quesillo for desert, but Harry can’t look at him because the mere scent of food now makes him ill. Mistakes were made. Many, many, delicious mistakes.

At long last, Dumbledore stands. “The very best of evenings to you all!”

It looks as if he were willing to hug the entire room. Harry’s eyes flit to Dumbledore’s right hand—the gasp from his left is Hermione, and he can barely keep the shock off his own face when he sees the blackened, dead, almost skeletal hand. From here, he spies the glint of gold, the ring.  _ Marvolo’s ring. _

The entire hall bursts with whisperings, but Dumbledore merely smiles. “It’s nothing to worry about, I assure you.” His voice is airy, jovial, as if he’s not  _ dying _ , the decay evident. “Now...a warm welcome to our new arrivals. May you enjoy your journey. To our old students, an equally warm welcome! A new and magical year of education awaits you all.”

He looks about the hall, seems pleased with all the noses pointing in his direction. “This year, we have new additions to our staff. First, Professor Slughorn,” here, Slughorn stands, looking rotund and happy, and bows to the audience, “who will be teaching the first two years of Potions.” A round of applause goes up, and Slughorn bows again. “As you can undoubtedly surmise, Professor Snape will continue teaching the rest.

The second-years look a tad discontented, the third-years relieved—they can’t comprehend what they’re missing, not that Harry blames them. Severus Snape is not a kind man, though he is a pragmatic one. He  _ should _ be kinder.

Dumbledore continues on, “Now, this may come as a shock to some of you, but Professor Binns has retired.”

A moment of stunned silence passes quickly into a smattering of whispers and the right opposite of shock: a cheer. Harry laughs; the shock will come soon, no doubt. He can’t wait.

“It is with great pleasure,” oh, Harry can  _ smell  _ the lie, “that I introduce you to your new History teacher, Professor Zaahir de Serpentina.”

Harry claps as loudly as he can, with much support from his friends, and soon the whispers can’t be heard over them. Salah’s baby Slytherin overwhelm their table with noise, and Harry spots Blaise Zabini rousing them up. Ginny, the absolute madwoman that she is, climbs on the table to whistle, helps Neville up so they can clap together.

“I didn’t know you were a fan!” Harry shouts up at Ginny.

“I sure am!”

The rest of the student body seems uncertain, but they clap along just fine. It’s not every day you hear you will be taught by a  _ Founder _ , something they slowly catch up on as the clapping dies down, to be subsumed again by the whispers and the speculations.

“Such enthusiasm,” says Dumbledore, eyes twinkling. “Professor Zaahir has some words for you, in a moment. First, some general announcements.”

He talks about Quidditch tryouts, the Forbidden Forest being forbidden, as if the name doesn’t give it away, many things Harry has heard so many times now that he could recite them in his sleep. He probably  _ should _ listen, as he’s team Captain now and it’s all his responsibility, but the moment that thought crosses his mind, he’s instead distracted planning how to set up tryouts, how he’ll structure their practice—

“...and our caretaker, Mr Filch, kindly asks you abstain from any joke artifacts from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.” With that concluded, Dumbledore’s expression turns grim. “As you may know, Voldemort and his followers have declared war. They are amassing numbers and strength.”

The silence becomes taut, stifling. Still, if there is one thing Harry appreciates, it’s the honesty Dumbledore shows here, the simple act of not skirting around the ugly truth.

“I cannot stress enough the danger of our present situation. We have, of course, fortified the castle’s protections to ensure your safety, but I must impress upon you the need to keep yourselves and each other safe. Heed any precautions your teachers think necessary. Do not stay out of bed in the after hours. Likewise, I implore you to come to us should you notice anything strange or out of place. I trust you will conduct yourselves properly, with each other’s safety always in mind. Now…”

Here, Dumbledore gestures at Salah. She stands again, and though previously her robes and the table had worked together to hide her midsection, it is impossible  _ not _ to see she is pregnant as she walks to stand where Dumbledore had just stood. The Headmaster takes a step back to give her the stage.

“Good evening,” Salah says. She smiles kindly at them, the soft light of the candle smoothening her around the edges. “And welcome. I hear your whispers, you’re all very astute,” she places both hands on the rounding of her belly, “I am expecting a child. Possibly kittens.”

At the Gryffindor table, Lavender and Parvati make awed little noises. Harry would join him if he didn’t think Hermione would potentially kick him.

“Unfortunately, due to the danger our Headmaster has already spoken of, we cannot allow this happy news to leave the halls of this school. Thus, we have agreed to cast a Fidelius Charm until further notice. My children’s safety is paramount, you understand.” Her eyes briefly flit to Harry, then Draco, before she continues. “With that out of the way, I would like to invite you all, staff included, to a little History session Godric and I will host this Friday. Seven P.M., sharp.”

At the mention of Godric, several eyes fly to the man and legend himself.

Someone asks loudly, “Is that really Godric Gryffindor?” Harry had completely forgotten they all still thought of him as ‘Professor Oswin’, and he stifles a chuckle when all Godric does is raise a goblet and drink.

“I will see you all in class,” Salah concludes. “Off to bed!”

If Dumbledore is annoyed she took his line, he doesn’t show it. The benches screech as students push them backwards; Harry feels enough time has passed that he can now stand without  _ dying. _ He takes a few hesitant steps, ascertains that he isn’t about to spontaneously collapse and perish, then joins Ginny and Neville as they trek to the common room.

“You didn’t tell us Salah is pregnant,” Ginny immediately accuses. Up ahead, Hermione calls for the first-years to follow, and Ron herds them all to follow.

“But you heard what she said, right?” Harry tells her.

“We’re your friends!” Ginny pouts. “Neville…”

“He’s kinda right, Gin.” Neville shrugs. “Anyone could’ve intercepted the letters. It’s dangerous information to have out there.”

“All right, all right.” She sighs. “Do we also keep mum about you being adopted?”

Neville gasps. “You’ve been adopted?”

“Good job keeping mum,” says Harry. When Ginny glares at him, he relents. The stairs are coming up, anyway, and he’s not about to climb some erratic magical stairs with an annoyed Ginny. “Nah, that’s not really a secret. The staff know already, but I’m still Harry Potter, so…”

“Harry Potter of Gryffindor and Serpentina,” says Neville

“Of Gryffindor and al-Tagr Zamarad,” Harry corrects. “Although, I  _ could _ go by either Gryposdor or Zaahir de Serpentina, but we opted out of that.”

“Sounds interesting,” says Ginny. Then she sends the conversation into a whole new direction. They have to wait for the baby Gryffindors to climb into the painting anyway. “What d’you think she’ll tell us about on Friday?”

_ Oh, just about everything the history books got wrong, _ thinks Harry. “Probably an extension of what she told last year? There’s a lot of ground to cover.”

“I bet.”

But they have to wait. Tomorrow’s only Monday, and they don’t even know their schedules yet. That still leaves them with six times sleeping and almost a day before their Friday history session, and it’s not like Salah will tell them anything about it during classes.

“Here’s to another year,” says Harry.

***

Monday, as it turns out, Harry and Ron start with a free period. This gives Harry plenty of time to plan out Quidditch tryouts for Fri— _ Saturday. _ Hopefully everyone is well-rested.

He points at Ron. “So, Quidditch tryouts. Saturday. I’ll ask Madam Hooch to book the pitch for us after lunch.”

After he swallows down a truly excessive mouthful, Ron asks, “I’m still allowed on the team?”

“Of course,” says Harry. “But I can’t just let you on the team without trying. It wouldn’t be fair.”

With Ron happy, Harry turns back to his timetable. He has one free period today which, given that the first coincides with Ancient Runes, means he’s not likely to see much of Draco outside of the meals and the one Care of Magical Creatures class today. That’s fair. He’s still not entirely sure about his decision to still take that class, but it would still be  _ useful _ to at least know more about magical creatures. Some of them can even help with brewing.

“So, I’ll see you guys in the afternoon break?” Ron says.

“No, I have Arithmancy.” Hermione looks guilty, even steals a glance at Hagrid. “And there’s a Care of Magical Creatures class, but who follows that anymore? I have a full schedule, you know?”

“I do. Draco does,” Harry says between bites. When his friends give him incredulous looks, he explains, “He liked it last year, with the thestrals and such. So he exchanged Divination and Arithmancy with that.”

“Last year he was ready to sell out Hagrid to Umbridge,” Ron says, exasperated.

“Do not say that demoness’ name, Weasley,” Draco says from behind Harry. He takes a seat on Harry’s right, quickly pecks him on the lips. “I’m famished, and I refuse to have my appetite killed.”

“Did you sleep well?” Harry asks.

“Yes, fine, just,” Draco exhales. “It’s the weirdest thing, but I miss all the noise around me. I almost slept through breakfast because Theo wasn’t blundering around, groggy little fiend, but thankfully Winky personally kicked me out of bed.”

“Did you really drop Arithmancy?” Hermione asks, as her priorities are always crystal clear even early in the morning.

“Yes,” Draco makes a face. “It’s...not that interesting? I only took it because I hated the very notion of Muggle Studies. And now that I know more about Mu—non-magical people, I don’t know if I want to take a class that flies in the face of everything non-magicians can do.”

“That’s fair,” says Hermione. “Muggle Studies really is an awful class. I tried to tell Professor Burbage once that rotary phones haven’t been used much since the 1950s, and she got angry at me. I don’t think she’s ready for the concept of mobile phones, which is a shame.”

“I mean, the woman almost had a hissy fit at Salah for teaching History of Magic with a Doctorate in Postcolonial History, so…”

Hermione sits up straight. “She has a  _ Doctorate?” _

“I know!”

They share a commiserating glance, and Harry can’t tell what’s more hilarious—that Draco and Hermione somehow get along now, or Ron’s bewildered state of being at everything that’s just transpired right in front of his nose. Somewhere along the line, the fabric of their realities had been torn and stitched back together, and now’s the time to just go with it.

“What’s a mobile phone?” asks Ron.

Unfortunately, the first bell rings, and so Hermione and Draco dash away to Ancient Runes—Draco with a kiss for Harry and half a sandwich in his hands. This leaves Harry to explain the concept of a mobile phone. “Picture, if you will, a smaller phone you can carry with you anywhere and everywhere.”

“So, you can call people at any time?”

“And people can call  _ you _ at any time.”

“Brilliant.” Ron shakes his head. “A bit mad, but brilliant still.”

That’s probably what most non-magicians had thought, too, until they truly had become available for phone conversation at any time of the day. It’s all neat and well until someone calls on you in the middle of the night, but he’s not about to dash the twinkle in Ron’s eye, or the excited way he says his father should hear about it.

However, much to Ron’s utter disappointment, Harry drags him to the library. He needs to focus on his Quidditch plans, and prepare for all the classes. He hasn’t finished sorting all his notebooks yet, for one.

“Blimey, when did you become such a swot,” Ron complains as they enter the library. Madam Pince glares him into a quieter voice, “We could go sit outside!”

“I mean, we still could.” Harry stops, thinks about it. The weather is still nice enough for an outdoors sit. Unfortunately for Ron, Harry spots Amanita in a corner with Neville, so that’s that. “We could also get you well and ready for this term. I mean, have you bespelled your books yet?”

“Yes. Harry!”

But Harry does not relent. Instead he starts Amanita from her nap as he plops down next to her, greeting Neville with a little wave.

The first hour actually goes by with less pain and boredom than Harry thinks Ron had feared; his friend had stopped complaining when Amanita had pointed out how much work they’re likely to get now that they are all at N.E.W.T.-levels. Harry had already read through all of his school books except for Potions, and once he’s done with his Quidditch strategies, he takes the time to sift through Snape’s suggestions.

What catches his eye first are the small letters on the inside of the cover.  _ Property of the Half-Blood Prince. _ It sounds both ominous and pretentious as all hell which, granted, Severus had been all of seventeen when he’d possessed the book, but it feels out of tone.

_ Half-blood Prince. _ Snape’s a half-blood. Hadn’t his mother’s family name been Prince? Well, if Snape was going to be proud of something and create a title out of it, childish as it sounds, he might as well use his own mother’s legacy.

Far more interesting are his notes,  _ Crush the Sopophorous bean with flat side of silver dagger, releases juice better than cutting. _ That’s interesting, and one thing Harry would definitely try, even though he’s not quite...looking forward to brewing Draught of the Living Death. Alternately, Severus suggests simply shoving  _ a bezoar down the victim’s throat, _ and hadn’t he said something about a bezoar in year one? 

In contrast, the Elixir to Induce Euphoria is so heavily scribbled on that Harry has trouble reading it. He gives up in the last five minutes and decides he’ll just have to ask Severus about it in person. They have double Potions today.

First, Defence. Admittedly, it’s still Harry’s favourite subject, though now in competition with Potions. Harry and Ron meet Hermione in the hall on the way to class. Half the class seems to be around the doorway, though the Ravenclaws have decided to affect an air of casual interest rather than the brazen curiosity of the Gryffindors. The door isn’t even locked when Harry tries the handle, which makes everything all the more ridiculous.

Their classroom is much the same as it had been the year before. Ron and he are pushed inside with a violence and vengeance, which Godric regards with a raised brow. Without a command, the students leave their bags by the wall and face their defence teacher. Godric watches them all with clear eyes, the blackboard behind him announcing that they are now in  _ Advanced Defence _ .

Whispers die out when Godric unfolds his arms. “Welcome,” he says. “You know me by now. Against Hogwarts tradition of the last, oh, thirty years, I return for another year of Defence.”

“Against the Dark Arts,” Lavender Brown quips.

Godric levels her with a patient stare. “Defence. Such things as ‘Dark Arts’ don’t exist. Only intent. With the right mindset, I could just as easily kill you with a well-placed Severing charm.” He exhales. “Normally—at least in our time, you would already know how to Apparate. As you will only be taught this later in the year, I’ve had to adapt—”

“Are you really Godric Gryffindor?”

It’s one of the Ravenclaws, but Harry can’t see whom. Godric blinks comically before he chuckles, takes out his wand and points to the blackboard.

_ Godric Hereweald Oswine Gryposdor _

_ Advanced Defence _

To some extent, the  _ oohs  _ and  _ aahs _ are amusing, to another extent wholly expected and understood, but Harry has had enough of it all. If everyone could get with the program, maybe they can also have a useful school day of it.

He truly does sound like Hermione now.

Right into the noise, someone says, “Why?”

“Why am I Godric of Griffon’s Door?” Godric raises a brow.

“No.” It’s Parvati. “Why come back now?”

Now comes silence, and expectation. At Harry’s side, Hermione inhales sharply; it’s likely a question she’s wanted answered for months now, with little to no success. Even Harry can’t guess at the answer, and he’s adopted Godric as his father.

Pensive, Godric inclines his head sideways. “Well, at least one of you is asking the right questions today,” Godric says. “Why come back? Why come back  _ now? _ But firstly, why leave at all?”

The air is thick with expectation. “We grew older. We taught thousands, raised our children and eventually we left our school in their capable hands. Because of a little pact we made, we would not die, but were instead left to clean up the messes of several ill-intentioned magicians. We fought and stopped wars.” Godric sighed. “Unfortunately, Tom Riddle, better known as Voldemort, refused to stay incorporeal. And now we are here.”

The class murmurs, but Harry stares ahead. Salah and Godric had made a pact; this is a common thread in what they say. But what being had the power to so easily grant long-lasting life or, perhaps, the negation of Death? Antioch, Ignatius, and Cadmus had made pacts, too.

“Now where was I,” says Godric, “Plans. As our Headmaster has said, we are at war. War is not the province of children, but it also does not care about these details. As such, I will train you for battle and for war. This is not, and I can’t stress this enough, a game. This can be your death. I will treat it as such. Questions?”

This time, nobody speaks.

For their first class of the year, at least as far as Defence goes, it’s near brutal. Godric starts them on exercise, which is odd enough that they just do it without complaint, but then it’s guards up—anyone can attack anyone, at any time, with anything. Even Harry’s natural reflexes become strained.

This is fifteen minutes. The classroom is filled with pants and gasps, but Harry is glad for it; the cacophony of spells had nearly caused him to go deaf.

And then Godric says, “Now pair up, and try to cast non-verbally.” At the stunned silence, and some mild beginning protest from Ravenclaws, he says, “Yes, you’re exhausted. Yes, it requires focus. You won’t have the benefit of being well-rested when you fight, but you will certainly leave your opponent unknowing of what or when you cast.”

The half of the hour is utterly silent, barring grunts of anger and frustration. Harry, feeling rather suicidal, pairs with Hermione, known swot who quickly masters spells. Ron decides to safely go with Neville, because one of them has to be smart and self-preserving in some way, and sometimes it’s Ron who has that particular braincell.

Hermione’s downfall is that she knows far too many spells; she can’t decide which one to try, which one suits the occasion, which one will hurt more, which less, which one is balanced evenly along the lines of pain and irritation. Harry on the other hand, is still tired, has half a working brain after the workout fried his nerves, and goes for the simplest thing:

_ Expelliarmus. _

It works on the fourth try. Hermione’s wand goes flying behind her, arm flailing at an odd angle before she lets go. Blinking owlishly, Harry stares back at her.

“ _ Ow,” _ she says. “Harry!”

“Sorry?”

Over at the head of the room, Godric says, “Good! Keep it simple. Spells you’ve already mastered verbally work best.”

Hermione nods, mutters, “Don’t think—act.”

It’s just unfortunate she had to say that where Harry could hear it, because if there’s one thing he’s really good at is impulsive action without much thought. Draco would probably savour that thought if he were ever to hear it, and so Harry opts to keep it all to himself and just jump to his next spell, which is to levitate Hermione with  _ t _ he sheer power of wishing her to. It’s not easy.

She shrieks. It’s actually rather funny until she manages to disarm him whilst midair, and then it’s  _ on. _

In the end the half hour flies by, and Harry wins by virtue of sheer speed and some creativity over Hermione’s wide arsenal of spells. If you just imagine your goal rather than  _ speak _ it, everything is so much quicker, ten times as unexpected, and a million times more satisfying when a spell lands.

Possibly, he understands why Salah chooses to cast spells in her native Spanish—not even spells, really, just a concise dictation of her will. These are things people can’t know or anticipate nor counter. Any advantage is a gift.

“Oof,” says Ron as the bell rings. “Salah and Godric really are in a class of their own.” He wipes the sweat from his brow.

“Well, yeah,” says Neville.

“No, but truly,” Ron says with more feeling. “Remember their duel last year? Their spells were utterly silent, but they were pin-point precise. And then at the ministry—everyone else shouting spells, yet  _ they _ moved about with such purpose, like hunters on a battlefield.”

“Hunters don’t typically go on battlefields,” says Hermione.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” says Harry. He slings his bag on his shoulder, absent-minded, back to the battle at the ministry. Of course the duel at Hogwarts had seemed easy; Salah and Godric know each other too well. Nothing had quite hit. But the battle had been different—the same fluidity, the same bloodlust and lethality. One has to commend the Death Eaters for daring to stand against that. Except,  _ not really. _

They split off—Hermione to Arithmancy, Ron to enjoy his free time, and Harry to meet Draco for Care for Magical Creatures. The wind is nippy when Harry steps out, but it doesn’t matter because he spots Draco right away, and just that sight of blond hair is enough to warm him up enough that he cares very little for what the weather chooses.

It’s a small class, comprised of Draco, Millicent Bullstrode and Theodore Nott for the Slytherins, and Harry, Neville, Amanita and Seamus for the Gryffindors. Luna, to everyone’s surprise, is also present, which likely marks the first instance of such a wildly mixed class that Harry’s ever seen.

“Lots of Hufflepuffs,” Hagrid says, beaming down at his class. “The class is too full, so we’ve got you all in one sitting.”

Despite the class starting off with a visit to the Forbidden Forest, it’s a rather subdued hour compared to Defence. They’re supposed to catalogue the trees, which has absolutely nothing to do with magical creatures by Harry’s reckoning, but he’s not about to complain; his mind has already drifted off to the upcoming Potions double. The class actually passes him by entirely.

“You’re not getting my notes,” says Draco.

“We weren’t even looking at magical creatures,” Harry says, voice rising in pitch.

“ _ You _ weren’t looking at magical creatures.” Draco harrumphs. “I saw knarls, though they might as well have been hedgehogs.”

“We covered them last year.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “But do you know exactly how many of them are in the forest? How many are adults, and how many still infants? Which ones are good to extract quills from? No, you don’t, Harry Potter.”

And off Draco goes, leaving behind a red-cheeked Harry and a laughing set of classmates, all giggling at his expense.

“Cheer up, Potter,” says Millicent. “You’ve got the rest of term.”

Then she whisks past him, Nott on her heels. Harr  _ would _ be more vexed, but her tone had been mild, and he’s boyfriends with Draco Malfoy. And he’s got a Potions class to get to, too.

If someone had ever said, say about a year ago, that he’d be pleased to enter the Potions classroom and see Severus Snape, he would have laughed hysterically and jinxed them into next Sunday. Salah’s entrance and influence on his life is both undeniable and utterly insane.

Of their entire year, four Slytherins, another four Ravenclaws, and one Hufflepuff had made it into N.E.W.T.s-class Potions. Harry, Hermione, Ron and Amanita were the only Gryffindors to make it into the class. He knows little of Ernie Macmillan other than that he’s a Pureblood and that last year he’d told Harry he believed in him and stood with Dumbledore. That’s just a tad less encouraging now.

They’re not given much time to greet each other before the door creaks open. Snape’s disembodied, “Enter,” is as imposing as it isn’t inviting, but the vapours that suddenly meet them pique more than Harry’s interest.

Three cauldrons stand lined against Severus’ desk. The other Slytherins—Zabini, Parkinson, and Nott, sit down together, though Zabini and Nott are much closer to each other, leaving Parkinson to herself. Draco sits with Harry, surrounded by Ron and Hermione at each flank, and the Ravenclaws huddle together. Ernie takes a moment to look, but finds a willing companion in Amanita.

As he sits, Harry is hit with the scent of early morning aftershave, the fresh air of flight, and that perfume that is uniquely Draco. Subsumed under it is the scent of the pomade Draco now uses to keep his little blond waves bouncy and the grass of when they’d sat by the lake together on Sunday afternoon.

“This,” Severus—well, Snape for now, says, “is a N.E.W.T.-level class. Some of you clearly have the wits for it,” he glances at Draco, Hermione, and Zabini, “whilst others have proven...resilient.”

Harry grins with all his teeth. Resilient is a word one could use. He rather likes the idea that he’s here against all odds, on his own merit.

Snape says, “As the astute among you have already noted, I have here brewed potions that, by the end of this year, you will have to brew perfectly.” He points to a clear, odorless potion. “Does anyone care to identify what we have here?”

Immediately, Harry raises his hand. Hermione’s more practiced hand is quicker and does not fail to make Snape look at her in utter disgust; her eagerness to mark her knowledge is, by this point, legendary. Zabini raises his hand, too, albeit with a more lazy sort of elegance to it.

“Mr Zabini?”

“I believe that is Veritaserum, sir,” Zabini says calmly. “It’s colourless, odorless, and has the rather charming ability to force the drinker to tell the truth.”

“Correct.” Snape moves on to the next cauldron, next to which the Ravenclaws have huddled. “And this one?”

It takes effort for Harry not to cast Hermione a nervous glance; her arm punches the air once more, eager to identify the very potion she had brewed in their second year. He should probably never tell Snape of that little detail, which is exactly why he’s going to at the first available opportunity.

“Potter.” The word is explosive. Harry nearly startles, but keeps composed enough to throw a slow glance at the bubbling mud-like potion. Even so, his nose is still filled with Draco’s scent, overwhelming and heady, terrible in its distraction.

“Poly-juice,” he says evenly. “Sir.” if they’re going to keep up charades, he must be as cantankerous as he can. Which, right now, is not a lot, given how he only smells Draco all around him, and it’s driving him  _ insane. _

“It appears Potter may yet earn his place here,” Snape says nastily. Still distracted, Harry shrugs of the insult with an easy smile.

“And this?” Snape asks, pointing at yet another cauldron. It’s the one with Draco’s scent, and he almost wants to swat Hermione as her hand again flies upwards. Snape  _ almost _ closes his eyes, as if all of Hermione’s enthusiasm is giving him a migraine, but still he says, “Yes, Granger?”

“Amortentia!” Hermione says, nearly breathless. “Distinctive for its pearlescent sheen and the steam rising in spirals.” With a bit more calm and composure, she adds, “It smells differently to each of us according to what we find attractive.”

As if on cue, she ducks her head, as if her dark complexion won’t hide the pink of her cheeks. Harry thanks his own tan for hiding the redness, not that that stops his face from burning on like a pyre.

Draco is far less fortunate.

Snape goes on as if none of this is unfolding right in front of him. “Amortentia, of course, does not  _ create _ love. No potion has that power. It does, however, cause a powerful infatuation, or I should say, obsession. This is what makes it the most dangerous potion in this room.”

His dark eyes bore through them, as if he wants to impress upon them the importance of what he has said. Harry suddenly remembers the vehemence Hermione and Ginny had shown upon discovering Amortentia in the Weasley twins’ shop, and he just might use his power as an investor to get him to pull that particular line.

“We shall now start for the week.”

“Sir,” says Ernie, “What of that potion?” He points to a golden cauldron.

Snape’s smile is sharp, almost lethal. “That, Mr Macmillan, is Felix Felicis.”

If Harry’d been less distracted, he might have not jumped up. At his right, Hermione gasps audibly, and to his left Draco sits up straighter.

“I see some of you have an idea of what that means.” Snape continues to smirk. “Felix Felicis, a most devious potion to make, difficult not only for the sheer amount of complex ingredients, but for how easy one can brew it to disastrous ends.” Oh, Snape most certainly made this to spite Harry for making a perfect new strain of Wolfsbane. Goddamn, the man is genius.

“It’s liquid luck,” Hermione mutters.

“If brewed correctly,” Snape says, “it will grant the drinker luck. At least, until it wears off. One tiny bottle—this will be the prize for whoever makes the perfect potion this hour. Draught of the Living Death.”

That is certainly one way to get a class in gear. The scraping of chairs, the frenzied way people now gather their things; it all bespoke of a deep desire to get theirs hands on a neat little thing called liquid luck, and damn if Harry doesn’t get his hands on it—he has to examine it close up, taste it just once to see for himself what it would feel like.

_ Draught of the Living Death _ , the one potion Harry had not looked forward to.

Bluish steam fills the classroom. Harry can’t give himself much room for experimentation here; his potion had to be perfect. He, Hermione, and Draco are ahead of everyone else, their potions at the half-way stage—smooth, black-currant-coloured.

The sopophorous bean will simply  _ not _ be cut. Harry can see Draco struggling with it; Hermione too. Smirking at their troubles, he goes for the Half-blood Prince’s advice: crush the been with the flat side.

The sap comes easily. It seems almost impossible that the same bean that refused to be cut could produce this much juice, but here they are. Then, after adding, all he has to do is stir counterclockwise continuously—no, clockwise after every seventh counterclockwise turn.

Lo and behold. The potion went from lilac to a faint, pale pink. Draco is going to  _ kill _ him as soon as he finds out Harry had already taken notes. To not even speak of Hermione, who now looks at him in fury.

“ _ How,” _ she grouses. He points at his book. She squints over, but shakes her head in disbelief; had Salah not said that her staunch adherence to the books would be her downfall? Hermione’s potion refuses to turn pink.

Just as Draco leans in, Snape says, “Time’s up.”

It’s an anxious moment to wait as Snape circles their desks. There’s few of them anyway, and Harry’s heart hammers in his chest as he awaits the verdict. He doesn’t even dare look around him; he just hears Ron’s faint cursing and feels the general disappointment in Hermione’s aura.

“Well,” says Snape, unsurprised. “We have a winner.” He sneers down at Harry. “It appears Mr Potter’s sudden skill of last year was no fluke.”

A man could kill Severus Snape for his dedicated dastardly mask. Surely no one would fault Harry, except maybe Salah, who is rather fond of the oily bastard. And Godric, of course, if he were to get caught for murder.

And thus Harry gets his little vial of liquid luck, all under the envious eyes of his classmates, friends, and boyfriend. Parkinson, especially, looks a bit green around the edges, and if looks could kill, she would rival Medusa.

The potion itself is almost literally gold, except just a shade lighter. It’s mesmerising when held in what little light Snape allows in the room. Harry will have to leave this in his private bedroom, just in case; anyone would pay their weight in gold to have this, and he’d rather not tempt anyone to  _ steal _ it from him. He’ll think of a use for it at some point, probably.

“Dismissed.”

The bell rings. Their spirits are doing well all things considered, though Parkinson glides by with a fury, lip curled. Harry pays her no mind; his mind is on his good fortune and on dinner, and what is likely to be a most auspicious year, if he has any say in it.

Of course, Hermione immediately accosts him in the hall. “How did you  _ do _ that?”

With a certain ease, and the knowledge that envious Parkinson isn’t around to bother them, Harry shows her the book.

“You bastard,” says Draco. “I haven’t even had a chance yet.”

“Should have had a free hour instead of Runes, then.”

Hermione shakes her head. “But how can you trust this? Who knows how old this book is.” she goes through the pages, returns to the inside of the cover. “The Half-Blood Prince? How can you—”

Quiet, as there are still others milling about in the hallway, Harry says, “Severus’ mother is Eileen Prince.”

That goes and well shuts Hermione up, though Ron looks like he’s just had a boulder fall atop his head. The cogs in his head have come to a whirring halt, but the ones in Hermione’s head continue on at full speed, which Harry commends her for.

“I see.” she hands him back the book, which is a shame for her, because she could learn a lot about straying outside of one’s comfort zone.

“Sorry,” says Ron. “Since when are we on a first-name basis with  _ Snape _ ?”

Draco raises his hand. “Godfather,” he says blandly, which does nothing to stop Ron from looking at him as if he were utterly insane, as if Draco had had any choice whatsoever in who would eventually become his godfather.

But where would  _ Harry _ begin? “Well—”

“Harry! Hey!”

He doesn’t recognise the voice, but the boy that comes bounding down the hall is Jack Sloper—Beater, last year, as far as Harry recalls. If up to Harry however,  _ which it is now _ , Sloper will not see the pitch ever again.

In a twist of fortune, Sloper only pushes a note into Harry hand, grinning. “See you this Saturday!” and bounds away again, leaving Harry confused until he recalls he’d sent his own note to McGonagall earlier to reserve the pitch come Saturday.

“You’re receiving love notes?” says Draco. “Should I be jealous?”

“No,” says Harry. He’s immediately recognised the thin, slanted handwriting, and the sense of deep betrayal had abruptly returned to him. It doesn’t help, either, that it’s an invitation. Without waiting for his friends, Harry sets off to the stairs.

“Harry!” Ron calls. “Wait up!”

Ron, with his long legs and the experience of many years dealing with Harry, catches up first. Draco is not far behind, with Hermione lagging behind in part due to the many books she carries.

“I need to talk to mum and dad,” Harry says breathlessly. “Dumbledore wants to give me private lessons.”


	2. The History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hogwarts, A History: Revisited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this on this here fresh Sunday (what is a schedule) bc JK TERF Rowling is airing her ass again in plain pandemic and BLM protests.
> 
> Trans rights, Black Lives Matter

The wing is empty upon their arrival, which has Harry cursing his timing. It’s past time for dinner to start; he should have just waited patiently for that to pass before rushing here, raising everyone’s hackles and suspicions. What would Dumbledore make of his absence in the hall?

“Damnit,” Harry says for the fifth time.

“All right,” Hermione says patiently, “but what for?”

“Yeah, mate.” Ron still hasn’t taken in all of the new space around him, and so he seems a bit unfocused for a bit there before he turns to Harry. “Isn’t a meeting with Dumbledore good? Maybe he’ll finally tell you stuff.”

“Well,” says Draco, “that would be entirely out of character for him.”

He gets two equally incredulous looks thrown at him, though Hermione quickly turns pensive instead. Since Harry is wholly willing to wait here for his parents to come from dinner, and Ron’s stomach rumbles dangerously, Harry calls on Winky.

“We won’t be having dinner in the hall,” he explains. “So could you bring us something?”

“Most certainly, Master Harry,” and she’s off a split second after Harry realises that he’s given her full reign over the quantity of food she can bring, and he hopes to God she doesn’t just lift an entire table and deposit it in the middle of the sitting room.

Draco throws him a look. Harry says, “I  _ know _ .” and tries not to look like he’s just made a huge mistake. At least Ron can eat for an army.

Hermione, bless her wit, takes a seat and pulls Ron down with her. “So, what is this about? What is it about these private lessons that upsets you?”

With a quick glance at Draco, Harry takes a seat across from his friends. This would not be a pleasant conversation, but Ron and Hermione are his friends, best friends, the ones who’ve stood with him the longest. Surely they would understand?

“It’s not the lessons,” he begins, “nor even them being private. It’s Dumbledore himself.” A deep breath, and he continues, “Over the summer, I came upon some realisations…”

It takes the better part of an hour to explain it all, to lay out in proper order all the turns his mind has taken—from his mother’s protective magic, to his childhood with the Dursleys, to the complete and utter lack of safety at Hogwarts. His friends don’t protest, don’t interrupt, not even when he points out that, had it not been for Dumbledore, the Dursleys would never had a chance to abuse him. Ron winces when Harry reaches the point about his isolation, and  _ who _ had caused that.

“And now I’m here,” Harry says, “I’m magic. I would lay down my life for this world, because it’s the only one that has told me that I can be good, that I am worthy.” Draco grabs his knee, and Harry gently lays his hand atop Draco’s.

“I know it sounds insane,” says Harry, “even paranoid…”

But Hermione shakes her head. “No, Harry.” She exhales. “I think we’re finally starting to see things clearer. Did it not ever strike you as strange that, the very year you entered Hogwarts, Dumbledore had the Philosopher’s Stone transferred here?”

“To keep it safe,” Ron counters. He hasn’t even touched the food Winky had brought them, which is substantially alarming. “Hogwarts is the—”

“Safest place, yes,” says Hermione. “Except, Harry’s just demonstrated that it hasn’t been. Besides that, Nicholas Flamel managed to keep it safe for nearly six centuries. Why change its location then? Why have one of your own employees take the stone from Gringotts vault—the most fortified place? Why put it in a school full of children? In the very year Harry started here? I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“You reckon he knew…?” Draco starts

“That Voldemort would come after the one thing that could restore his body? Undoubtedly.” She stands up, paces across. “I reckon he  _ hoped _ for it. Every year has been a test. First the Stone. Then the basilisk, which was just convenient timing. Then Sirius—again convenient timing, but why send  _ children _ with a Time Turner to solve a problem adults had caused? So many things could have gone horribly wrong. Now, Fourth year—”

“Who in their right mind would agree to host the Triwizard Tournament?” says Draco. “It’s cost lives before. We all knew this.”

“And it brought back V-Voldemort.” Hermione plops down again. “Fifth year is more complicated, since Fudge just sicced that devil woman on us…” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s always been about the initial challenge. The first test had already proven Harry to be a veritable, undeniable hero. Everything afterwards would simply be a refinement, a honing of skill and purpose.”

Draco stares at her. “You’re terrifying.”

“Thank you, I’ve practiced.”

“You’re both terrifying,” Ron says. “You’ll send me to an early grave.” Then he digs into the food in front of him with relish, and while it is truly endearing, Harry had not missed how utterly relentless Ron is, as if he has to attack his food before it escapes. Somewhere out there, a small, starved Harry would sympathise.

“Oh, Weasley,” says Draco, “I believe you will send  _ yourself _ to an early grave.”

Disgust aside, they all eat. It all tastes like sand to Harry; the prospect of private lessons isn’t an  _ issue _ per se, but the fact that he can’t trust Dumbledore as far as he can throw the man is. Hogwarts is his home. Dumbledore was supposed to be an idol, a wise-person he could look up to as an example.

And it’s not that he’s not supposed to be flawed. Salah and Godric have flaws. Sirius is flawed, Remus is, too.  _ Snape _ is one enormous flaw one has to work through to interact with, all sharp edges and smokescreen.

But they all rise on top of it somehow, proving themselves to ultimately be human, kind in their own way, even caring. Dumbledore has been a good headmaster, but as a leader on one side of a vicious war, he has made questionable choices.

Right as Winky presents them with desert, Salah comes strolling in. She only spares them a glance before she shrugs off her black robes. She’s very much settled for flowing dresses that sometimes accentuate her distended stomach, not that much of it is visible under her teaching robes.

Godric strides in behind her and does a headcount. “Right, you’re all here.” He nods at their cheesecake dessert, which Ron is already in the process of vanishing. “And fed. What’s the emergency?”

“It comes with a handy note,” says Harry. He watches as Godric looks pleased for precisely two entire seconds before he reads, then reads again.

“Oh, absolutely not,” says Godric. He passes the note on to Salah. Then, brow furrowed, “Wait, he enjoys Acid Pops? Why is he telling you that...?”

“It’s the password,” Harry explains. When Godric looks even more confused, Harry says, “To get past the gargoyle.”

“You can just—” it’s possible Godric is about to lose the last shred of his mind. He turns to Salah as if for confirmation. “You can. You can just—a  _ password?” _

Salah heaves a sigh. “You can just kindly ask Glyrna to let you pass.”

“How else are students to reach the headmaster or headmistress?” Godric asks with growing incredulity. “Does only the staff know the password? How is it that an entire school full of children cannot go to the highest form of authority present in it?”

“What’s the gargoyle for, then?” Hermione asks curiously.

Nonplussed, Salah pouts a bit. “Well, to keep out troublemakers and anyone coming to me in bad faith. She could also direct students to my whereabouts in case I wasn’t present in the office. Otherwise, if I were to only be out shortly, she would let them in so they could wait.”

Draco sighs. “Why does your Hogwarts sound so  _ reasonable. _ ”

“Because we’re reasonable people, darling; you know this.”

This is all very good and well, but, “Can we get back to the,” Harry gestures at air, “private lessons?”

Silence falls like a knife. Salah reads over the note again, face neutral. This isn’t encouraging in the least, certainly not when she says, “Well, I’ve got to hand it to the man; he asked his target directly.”

“Bypassing us,” Godric adds, “his parents.” He glances at the note in disgust. “Private lessons? At night? What about Harry’s regular lessons—his actual education. What could be so important that you would impinge on his free time?”

“V-Voldemort,” Hermione points out.

“Aside from having murdered Lily and James Potter, and being a rather suspiciously constant threat in Harry’s life, I don’t see why Voldemort should be given any more room for disruption.”

“It could have something to do with the prophecy?” Harry says. It only serves to make the expression on his parents’ faces even worse, and the scent of lavender that is always his mother Lily comes with a pinch of distress. “Because I have to defeat Voldemort.”

A heavy silence—

“No,” says Salah. “Prophecy’s don’t work in absolutes.”

“ _ Neither can live while the other survives _ ,” Harry quotes. Draco makes a distressed little noise.

“You may well simply outlive him by sheer perseverance,” Salah says. “I wouldn’t call his shoddy attempt at necromancy  _ living. _ ”

“At any rate,” says Godric, “Voldemort should  _ not _ be your main concern. You’re a teenager. Your biggest challenges should be your classes and interpersonal relationships.” When Harry opens his mouth to protest, Godric adds, gently, “Are you involved in this war? Yes, undeniably so. But you’re not supposed to be its champion. You are not responsible for it nor should you be. What you should be is a child, enjoying all things children do.”

How’s Harry going to argue against that? He  _ is _ just a child, and he’d never wanted the burden of an entire war; all he’d ever wanted was a place to belong, and the magical world had resolutely claimed him as its own. His place here shouldn’t hinge on whether he can defeat Voldemort.

“So what now?”

Godric sighs. “We go see if Dumbledore’s in a chatty mood.”

***

Apart from Godric and Harry, their entourage remains behind under Salah’s ever-watchful eyes. With a little sprint to keep up—Godric has  _ long _ legs, and uses them efficiently, Harry is a bit out of breath when they finally reach the gargoyle—Glyrna.

She gracefully accept scratches under her chin when Godric provides them. Possibly, she purrs, but she speaks before Harry can be certain.

“The Headmaster does not expect you.”

“But he is in?” Godric pats her head. Glyrna’s eyes go narrow and pleased, like she’s a cat and not a near human-sized beast of grey stone who could knock him out cold with a good flap of her bat-like wings. With her wide and pointy ears, flat, browless forehead, and a feline snout, she could easily be an oversized housecat.

“He is in,” she confirms. She blinks down slowly at Harry, smiles with her pointy teeth out. “You may pass.”

With a lazy, wide yawn, she steps aside from her perch to let them through. Once at the top of the flight of stairs, they almost burst through into the office, with Godric entirely foregoing any warning in the form of knocking.

“Well,” says Dumbledore, “what a pleasant surprise.”

“I am sorry to disturb you, headmaster,” says Godric in what is the most insincere statement Harry has heard from him to date. “But Harry received a note from you, and I would appreciate it if we were to discuss it.”

Dumbledore  _ actually _ has the gall to look at Harry in surprise, as if the note and its content are supposed to have been something private. Harry has  _ parents _ now; he can’t go gallivanting off on Saturday nights for private meetings and expect that to go over well.

“No, I don’t mind,” says Dumbledore, as if Godric in any way cares about what the headmaster does or does not mind. He motions for them to sit. “What do you wish to discuss?”

A hot moment passes by in which Harry is all but certain Godric will toss the note at Dumbledore, but it’s with great disappointment he watches his father take a seat, legs folded one atop the other. He takes this as his cue to sit.

“May I ask  _ why _ you need Harry to take private lessons with you?”

“You may ask,” Dumbledore says patiently. “But I must then confess that the matter is between Harry and I.”

“You realise that is not at all encouraging, and as his father I cannot allow it?” 

“It truly is a delicate matter,” Dumbledore insists. “I do not mean to cause concern. The lessons concern information I would like to pass on to Harry.”

_ Information about Voldemort, _ Harry reads between the lines. Because  _ now _ Dumbledore wants to talk about Voldemort, after years of Harry’s every step being dogged by the shadow of his parents’ murderer.

“So you send him a personal note without so much as a word to us?” Godric looks Dumbledore over. “How do you expect me not to be concerned?” He unfolds his legs, posture showing he is done with the conversation. “You may not call upon Harry again unless either Salah or I are informed. He has schoolwork to focus on, and unless you give me a solid reason why he has to sacrifice time dedicated to that to come here and have a chat with you, the answer is no. This is your second warning Headmaster.”

For a moment, that is the end, and they walk away. It’s a much swifter conversation than Harry had expected. As Godric reaches the door, Dumbledore's voice stops them. 

“Does Harry not get a say?”

Oh, that is a low blow. From the sheer rigid position of Godric's shoulders, Harry knows his father has just rolled his eyes. But Godric doesn't turn, doesn't respond. He waits.

“I admit, I am curious what you wish to discuss with me, sir," Harry says calmly, truthful. “But I also agree with dad.”

The silence stretches. Harry grows twitchy under Dumbledore’s gaze, which perhaps goes to explain why he looks the man directly in the eyes.

A gentle press against his shields. Harry lets it happen with cold fury in his heart; this is the  _ second _ time, and one of these days he’ll be insane enough to twist around and return the favour, just to see what Dumbeldore will think of  _ that. _

“I see.”

_ You see nothing old man.  _ Harry marches out without so much as a glance back, leaving Godric and Glyrna in the dust. Godric, at least, can catch up with his long legs, but he doesn’t say anything just yet.

When had things gotten so terrible? Or had they always been such, and Harry has just now gotten the notice? Once, Hogwarts had been but a school, a place where he could be weird, magical Harry, the home where he’d had friends and bullies and enemies all the same. Now the script is so utterly flipped he can’t be sure he hadn’t accidentally wandered into a wholly new dimension.

  
  


***

By Friday morning, Harry is glad for his parents’ intervention in the whole business with Dumbledore and private lessons. He’d thought Fifth year had been insane with the amount of homework, but  _ no _ , Sixth year has to go and flex all over that notion, and he doesn’t even have a full roster, like Hermione.

Salah, during her first lesson on Tuesday, sent them to look for historical writings and report on it in a month’s time. Then on Thursday she had given them a lecture proper on the early history of England, starting before even Æthelstan, as Professor Binns once had.

“In those days, many doors were active on these isles,” she explains. “These doors are like pins into magic, keeping it centred and focused, usable. We’ve lost many doors since then, but the one in Gryposcire still stands, as does the one at Stonehenge. If you’re all very good,” she smiles, “I may even take you on excursion to Stonehenge.”

Behind her, the board’s chalk draws images of what she speaks. Harry sees the door at Gryposcire and the one at Stonehenge, then many others he doesn’t recognise. Salah talks about the four elements and how they are central to Hogwarts’ founding.

It’s one of the most engaging lessons they’ve ever had. Even Hermione forgets to take notes, just to sit and  _ listen _ at how colourfully Salah describes centuries of magical history, and by the end the hour seems far too short.

After Herbology on Friday, Harry drags Ron to the library once again, though this time his best friend is less opposed to the idea, perhaps as a quiet place to hide and just cry bitterly over their pile of homework.

“You wanted to go into medicine,” Harry reminds him. “That means Es and Os for all the required subjects.”

“But that’s  _ so many, _ Harry!”

Neville snickers. Amanita, late to the party, plops down with a dead look in her eye. Harry says absolutely nothing for fear she might stab him with her quill; she has it in her fist, a chokehold, nails digging into her palm.

Staring ahead, she murmurs, “Do you think Professor McGonagall will forgive me if I skip her class? Just one time? To nap. I need a nap.”

“Well, I don’t think she’ll outright  _ murder _ you,” says Harry. He’s a tad more concerned with Charms, personally, since every professor has now decided that non-verbal spells are the newest fad, and that’s considerably more difficult to do in Charms than in Defence, he has found.

“But you know who  _ will  _ murder me?” Amanita says, voice soulless. “Professor Zaahir, if I don’t finish compiling this reading list.”

_ That’s right. _ Harry winces. Salah’s two classes of this week, one a double, had gone rather smoothly. Unlike with Godric, nobody had bothered to ask her much, instead more interested in what she would be like as a Professor.

“She’s a terror,” Neville says. “I like it.”

That certainly seems like the general sentiment for now. Harry’s dealt with her for an entire summer; he will survive her class, probably.

Salah had set them a rather easy task, on the surface: find any book, chapter, or smallest record detailing some part of history, and compile that into a list—within Hogwarts. What were they to do with that list? Well, they would find out in the next lesson, on Monday. This had given them the double hour to peruse the pile of books and tomes she herself had brought along.

Some unfortunate soul had gone and complained that, as a professor, it was  _ her _ duty to set the reading material, to which Salah had said, “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Harry’s got half a list. Hopefully the weekend would be enough time to do the rest. Hopefully.

“Does  _ anyone _ know what one could use Snargaluff pods for?” Ron asks, desperately. Harry groans as he recalls the essay Professor Sprout had assigned them just fifteen minutes ago, at the end of a class where he’d had to pry Hermione’s arm from the grip of thick, gnarly vines as she’d retrieved a pod from its core.

“Best when fresh,” Neville quotes Professor Sprout cheerfully. “The tubers inside the pods attack anything they touch.”

“Ohh,” Ron groans, looking a bit green. “Ohh, can you  _ not…” _

Of course this means Neville doubles down with a perfect, graphic description of the vines, the pod, the tubers; it could have been ten times more amusing if movement from the right hadn’t distracted Harry.

Zacharias Smith approaches them with the smug kind of confidence that tells Harry two important things: Smith has no pleasant intentions, and Harry would potentially have to punch him.  _ Preferably out of Madam Pince’s line of sight. _

“So, Potter,” Smith says in the exact tone of voice Dudley would so often use.

“Smith,” Harry says curtly.

“I heard a rumour that a certain Malfoy and you have gotten rather chummy.”

Already tired, Harry returns to his books. He has homework, and this isn’t even remotely worth his time. Smith doesn’t relent, however.

“Care to comment, Potter?”

“Yes, Smith, what of it?” Harry doesn’t even need to look up to see Smith’s smirk, as if he’s ready to go in for the kill.  _ Smarmy bastard. _

“I think he wants an award for being able to read the paper, Harry,” says Neville. It’s so unexpected, Amanita chokes on her water, and Harry looks up at Neville to see his fellow Gryffindor looks as calm and perfectly pleasant as ever. That spine of his shows its presence at the oddest of times.

Smith protests, “That’s not—”

“Oh, Gods, did he miss how they’d become friends last year?” Amanita says. “You need to get your eyes checked, Smith.”

“My eyes are—”

“Move on, Smith,” Ron says. “I’m trying to read.”

“Well, aren’t you bothered your best friend got with your enemy?”

Here, Harry’s stomach drops. Ron’s initial reaction had been supportive, but that had been a letter in response to a  _ Prophet _ article. That wouldn’t just erase five years of enmity, not even after Draco apologised, also through letter.

“Enemy?” Ron says. “Was Draco Malfoy one bloody irritating bully? Blimey,  _ yes. _ Past that, he’s only a tad uppity, but he’s had the sense to become better, no? He even went with us to fight at the ministry! What’ve you got to say for yourself?”

Every tense muscle and nerve in Harry’s body relaxes. If even Ron can see how much Draco has changed, then he has little to worry about in earnest. He doesn’t imagine Ron and Draco will ever be  _ friends _ , but if they can go a day without being at each other’s throats…

Smith opens his mouth, but Madam Pince seems to have had entirely enough of their noise-making, and tells them to  _ shush _ or else. Their table goes back to their schoolwork, leaving Smith to stand about awkwardly for the few seconds before he decides he’s been humiliated enough, thank you very much.

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs to Ron.

“No problem, mate.”

The rest of their free period goes without further incident, and then it's time for Transfiguration and more of non-verbal hell. McGonagall doesn’t even have any mercy on them; they’re supposed to conure entire magical  _ birds _ out of thin air, which seems to Harry several steps from vanishing snails, or mice.

_ Birds _ . Birds are tricky. They’re tiny, have wings, and flutter about. They chirp and tweet and are, altogether, a whole lot more complicated than Harry had previously given them credit for, and  _ maybe _ he should have taken another look at his book before he’d gone to class. It’s been several weeks since he’d made his summer notes, after all.

As she walks around the class, surveying their progress—or entire lack thereof, in most cases, McGonagall treats them to a charming little lecture. “Severed heads, unidentifiable stumps, terrifying frog-rabbit mutations—all these and more have been created,” she nods at Hermione, whose tiny yellow birds flit about chirping happily, “to the dismay of those who made them. But today, you shall endeavor to make un-terrifying little things.”

_ Non-verbally _ , she doesn’t say, because she’d stared them all into silence at the start of class, all at once a reminder that this year would not start off easy even if they begged for it. But as soon as this torture is over, they will all be free to go elsewhere and Harry is going to enjoy every verbal moment of Care that he can. After that is dinner, and  _ after that _ Salah’s history session, so all he has to do is make it through  _ this _ hour.

[ _ Y no me importa si conjuro aves o peces— _ ](-)

The very moment he vehemently thinks  _ birds _ , an entire flock of very angry, very red birds that flap about with a vengeance. There’s three of them in total, and as Harry stares at them, blinking slowly like an enormous fool, they chase each other above his head before nose-diving as if trying out for their deaths.

“Ho-ohoh,” he says, and they stop. Instead they perch atop this desk and glare at him furiously. Somehow, he’s done them some great offence.

“Well done, Mr Potter,” says professor McGonagall. “But might I suggest less violence next time?”

At least in Care all he needs is pen and parchment; he absolutely refuses to go back to quills now that he has a neat little fountain pen spelled to fill itself. Next, they should implement notebooks instead of parchment, which, actually, he’s going to do now; he’s going to ask his parents to go shopping for notebooks.

He can do that now. Ask his  _ parents _ for things, because he has parents, they love him, and they will absolutely want to go shopping with him for things.

Hagrid takes them to see the Thestrals who, at least by Harry’s count, have multiplied. Some of them must’ve given birth over the summer, their skeletal foals small and trotting along on spindly black legs.

“Oh, look,” Harry says to Draco, “That’s the one that had you freaking out.”

“Haha, you’re  _ hilari— _ oh my god, something’s nudging me.”

The mare from last year, the very one that Harry had had to drag Draco away from after he foal had made him jump out of his skin, had recognised them. It doesn’t take much; Draco is the only student present with such remarkable blond hair. She pushes her snout lightly against his shoulder.

“Hullo,” says Harry. She allows him to caress her beak. Her mini-me seems to rather want to melt back into her mother, but stands fast when Harry leads Draco’s hand to her tiny snout.

“There, there,” says Draco. 

The lesson is peaceful; the Thestral population is nicely stable and the new arrivals find themselves well. Draco scotbles away notes as Harry measures and descotes each creature; Harry then has to copy the notes right at the end of class, when it’s time to walk back for dinner.

He’s not overly concerned with where he’s going; Draco leads him by the shoulders. Out of the forest, most of the field is grass and the occasional stump of wood, or a wayward shrubbery. Hogwarts could do with a bit more flowers, Harry opines, or a garden.

“Nice girly quill you’ve got there, Potter,” someone says nastily. It’s Crabbe, when Harry looks up, and those are possibly the most words he’s heard out of that particular mouth.

He continues his scribbles. “Why are you interacting with me?”

“‘Cos you’ve got a—”

“Girly pen, yes,” says Harry, patient. “It was a gift from my mum. Salah,” he specifies, because to hell with keeping hushed up, and it gives him the pleasure of watching Crabbe and Goyle, each other’s ever-present shadows, go utterly pale.

They hurry away.

“A name of great and undeniable power,” Draco says. Behind them, Neville—bless his soul—giggles. It’s contagious enough that soon all three of them are laughing.

It goes on like that well into their arrival in the hall, where dinner awaits. Their burst of chuckles and giggles get a few odd looks from nearby Gryffindors, though at least most of them have gotten used to Draco’s presence. Hermione throws several side-way glances their way. Ron is too busy being a well-fed boy to care much for how Harry can’t even take a sip of pumpkin juice without having to spit it out again so he doesn’t  _ choke _ .

The hall is filled with noise and an air of anticipation, and with Harry, Draco, and Neville’s giggles. Their history session isn’t until seven, two hours from now, which  _ should _ give them enough time to dine, have a quick shower and come back down in time to save up a good spot.

And all of this would be much easier if Harry wasn’t spilling pasta all over his robes, still giggling like a madman.

“Why are we laughing?” says Ginny. She slips in next to Neville, who shakes uncontrollably.

“Girly quill,” Neville says, and with that destroys Harry’s ability to hold his fork properly. It clatters unto his plate, which makes Draco laugh even harder.

Hermione puts down her cutlery to look at them, incredulous. “Seriously? What is wrong with you?”

Harry doesn’t get a chance. A tiny Slytherin has sidled up to Draco—Elicia Chidester, if Harry recalls correctly. Her eyes are big and a bit shiny, like she’s ready to cry, and the only reason she isn’t is because she holds hands with a second-year, one of Salah’s protegés.

“Go on,” says the second year. Harry can’t come up with a name, but he doesn’t think Salah ever introduced any of them. “You can ask.”

Miss Chidester directs herself at Draco, lip trembling. “May I sit here? You were nice to me, earlier.”

“Oh,” says Draco. “Oh, sure.” He makes space for her to sit between Harry and he, and Harry finds he can’t even mind because she’s so little, and clearly rather scared. “Do you need a place, too, Lanier?”

“No, thanks,” says Lanier. “We can take care of ourselves.” She gestures at the far end of the Slytherin table, which is entirely made up of Salah’s Slytherins. “It’s the littlest ones we really worry about, and Elicia likes you, so…”

Elicia promptly goes pink. Harry leans in and says, “He may sometimes be a meanie, but I like him, too.” She beams up at him.

Hermione straightens up. “If anyone causes any trouble, you should go to your Prefects.” Always by the book, Hermione.

“Yeah,” says Lanier. “But it’s Parkinson. She’s not very focused this year, so we’ve really only got Draco to lean on.” Then she leaves with a small wave, back across the hall to the seat she’d claimed. Hermione looks entirely unhappy.

“What’s she mean,” Hermione asks Draco, “about Parkinson.”

He grimaces. “She’s been absent-minded lately, and rather cruel to whomever calls on her to do her duties. At first I thought it just an act…”

Elicia chirps, “She really is mean!” with a frown and folded arms. She has the air and look of a rather put out, round little bird, which is the cutest thing Harry has seen this entire week. Bless her.

Unbidden, Harry’s eyes seek out Parkinson. She sits with her own group at the opposite end of the Slytherin table, though she might as well be an island in her own right. Her food seems almost untouched as she twirls her fork with her finger, round and round, disinterested, morose.

He’d never thought much of her, except that maybe she was a bit too infatuated with Draco, bleating out a laugh at any tangentially funny thing he said. Now, though, Parkinson looks far removed from that—more mature, certainly, but as if some layer or mask had been peeled away, and she just doesn’t have the energy to call it back.

_ Am I really going to add Pansy Parkinson to the list of people I need to worry about? _ By the look Draco throws her way, yes, yes he is.

He puts a pin in that.

Their little group splits; Harry and Draco to the fifth floor wing they now call home, their friends to their respective common rooms. They’re back in the Great Hall just over an hour later with twenty or so minutes to spare.

Their House tables are gone, replaced by row upon row of cushioned benches, fully backed. None of it is in the House colours; in fact, Harry sees no hint at all of the familiar red, green, yellow or blue. They’re grey instead, with pillows striped in white, violet, and orange.

“Guys!” Ginny waves at them from all the way in the front. Luna sits beside her with a crown of flowers on top of her head, and a new set of strange yellow glasses that somehow suit her face. Then again, the big, fluffy, pastel pink earrings that dangle from her ears complete the look, especially when a moment later they are neon green. When Harry blinks again they are electric blue.

“We’ve got this whole section reserved,” Luna says proudly

They’re early enough still that, after sitting down, they watch most students and staff arrive. Even the staff table is gone, and the professors are left to choose a seat amongst the students. Some, like professors Sprout and Flitwick, are delighted to join their respective houses, all huddled together.

Professor McGonagall chooses a seat in the third row, at the very end, where professor Snape stands, almost hidden in a corner. It’s the second time Harry sees them near each other, but then, most of the time they sit side-by-side at the staff table. Perhaps the so-called bitter enemies of Slytherin and Gryffindor have always been friends, through many ages.

Hagrid, being taller than most everyone, has his own seat at the back. A Hufflepuff Prefect comes by with students that are hard of hearing, and another leads students whose vision is impaired. They all get seats at the front, regardless of their House. Harry’s never paid much attention to that before, and there’s a total of at least sixty of them spread across the four Houses.

What if the school had wheelchair-users, or people who use canes? Practically the only way to get to other floors is by stairs, but you can’t exactly  _ do _ that with a wheelchair, can you? The wizarding world is absolute rubbish with disabilities.

“You’re frowning,” Draco says.

“My thoughts are frown-worthy.”

A hush falls in the Hall, now mostly full. Salah and Godric have arrived, this time in a much less elaborate, attention-grabbing fashion: Godric’s arm around Salah’s waist, Salah smiling pleasantly as they walk up to the podium. They look like aristocrats, elegant and almost untouchable. Even the Malfoys would be envious.

They nod in greeting and take their place upon the podium. It’s not seven just yet, so they all must sit and wait in anticipation.

Professor Dumbledore arrives last,  _ naturally. _ He greets everyone, twinkle in his eyes. It’s  _ odd _ to see him sit on the bench along with students, all around him whilst he sticks out like a sore thumb, pointy hat and all.

“Oh?” says Draco. Ron and Hermione have just arrived, too, and they plop down beside him. “The headmaster sits with the rabble?”

Ginny snorts, but Hermione throws Draco a  _ look _ , as if she’s insulted. Harry’s known her long enough that he reads through the second layer of the expression: she doesn’t want anyone to hear them.

Even so, Draco is right. It may be the absolute worst thing to say, especially in this crowd, but whilst Dumbledore poses himself as a champion of the people, he’s always somehow been above them, better, more intelligent, more powerful.

By now the hall is filled. At precisely seven, Salah directs herself to her audience and says, “Good evening, everyone.”

A murmured response goes through the hall. Salah gives them a wide smile, then steps away to reveal a stool. Next to her Godric crosses his arms and looks immensely uncomfortable.

“I’ve brought along a guest.” She takes out her wand and taps the air just above the stool. From the white light and the brief sparkles comes the Sorting Hat, surly and brown, tattered.

Godric and the Hat eye each other like two pleasant, smiling crocodiles.

“Boden,” says Godric.

“Master Godric.”

The entire exchange is sharp, a knife standing on its tip, as if someone is to be stabbed at any moment in a flash so quick only a pulsating artery will be the evidence. Salah’s brows have shot up so high, they’re in danger of very well flying away, and even from this distance, Harry can count the wrinkles they cause.

“Let’s not,” Salah says, voice nice, even, and kind.

The Hat opens his mouth only to be shot down with a mean glare, and then resorts to a sulk so deep, Harry leans back so as to not be sucked in. Godric harrumphs, gets his own glare. He doesn’t sulk.

Harry would  _ love _ to know the story behind all that. Next to him, Ginny looks on with great interest, but it’s not like they’ll have answers soon. They’ll have different kinds of answers tonight.

“Now that that is out of the way,” Salah says, still perfectly nice and pleasant. She dusts away some invisible thing from her thighs. “I’ve brought Boden as one of the school’s oldest residents. He is our records-keeper.” She glares at Godric again when her husband makes a little, high-pitched noise at the back of his throat.

“So, I’ve welcomed you here tonight to hear a story. It might just upset some core truths you have accepted about history, particularly wizarding history but, well, I’ve spent the entire summer doing that already.”

A chitter goes through the crowd, and some tension seeps away. “Now, as you know, I am Salah Alaia Zaahir de la Casa Serpentina. A long name, so it’s perhaps not surprising that it was shortened down to something less unwieldy, like Salazar Slytherin.” She looks at them sternly. “But that is not my name, and it never was. I’ve recently come to discover that a man named John Roderick of Gaunt is partly responsible for the persona, having married into the family and claimed himself to be my heir.”

“Oh, him,” says the Hat. He looks utterly put out. “Most unpleasant fellow. Came up with the whole sorting bit and left me to do the terrible thing.”

Salah looks at him, half-surprised, then turns back to the crowd as if to say,  _ and there you have it. _ “But we shall start at the very beginning.” She conjures a comfortable chair for herself, takes a seat. Godric moves closer, stands next to her with a hand on the back of the chair.

Salah tells them, “I was born in the Caliphate of Córdoba, in the province al-Andalus. Today, all of that is part of Spain.”

“And I was born in Gryposcire,” says Godric, “a couple of decades after the unification of England under King Æthelstan.”

Draco leans in, “Why didn’t they bring the painting?” but Harry can only shrug. Salah is talking, something about Myrddin.

“...brought us all together on these very grounds. Hrodwunn already had her first little girl by then, and Helga was almost still a girl herself. But there we were, tasked with starting an entire  _ school _ by a man who looked like he hadn’t bathed in days.”

“Smelled it, too,” Godric says. “I mean, we never saw him bathe did we? And we went halfway across the lands with him, all the way to Muireb.”

“That’s not the point,” says Salah, nose scrunched up. “We founded the school, named it Hugiweard at Helga’s suggestion. It means spirit guardian, and felt most appropriate at the time. Our goal was not only to teach, but also to protect magic. Soon children from all over came to us, and under our tutelage became accomplished magicians.”

Godric continues, “We dedicated our lives to this school, forged alliances and at times even brooked peace. It was a tumultuous time for Muireb and the surrounding kingdoms. Eventually Muireb would fall, as did many a kingdom.”

“Running a school is as much a political game as an educational enterprise,” Salah tells them. “Hugiweard’s founding here, on this site, was no coincidence. Many magical currents run here, and many more wanted this land. That Myrddin managed to swipe it away from under the noses of many a ruler attests his gall and cunning. He passed the responsibility to us, too,” she snorts. “Hrodwunn had a screaming match with him once I told her.”

Here the Hat gives a little giggle, though he can’t have been there to witness it. He did, however, know Rowena, so it must be easy for him to imagine her in a right fit; for Harry, though, it’s utterly bizarre to think of calm, serene Hrodwunn ever yelling at a decrepit old wizard. On the other hand, Helga and Salah would probably have both just stabbed the man and been done with it.

Somewhere in the audience, someone has raised their hand. “Why do you call her Hrodwunn? You mean Rowena Ravenclaw, yes?”

Salah nods. “Her name was Hrodwunn Hrabnazklaw. Like with my name, this has proven rather difficult for many a historian.”

“And Helga was Hjörulfsdóttir,” says Godric. “Her father was a chief, and her mother a shield-maiden. Helga herself became what was then known as a Vǫlva, a wand-bearer. She’d only just finished her training when Myrddin summoned her to Muireb, the first time she had ever left the northern isles.”

Hermione mutter, “I suppose soft Helga Hufflepuff was easier to digest.”

Harry has to agree. “She was a giantess of a woman. She could have crushed many with her arms. And her thighs.”

“As Boden here will attest, or already has,” Salah gestures at the Hat, “we did not at any time divide our students into these so-called Houses. Whatever magician came under our specific tutelage as apprentices at an advanced stage...well, they did so because they wanted to learn a specific type of magic. Helga, for instance, held Masteries in Healing Magic as well as being a Battle Mage and a Woodspeaker. As a Vǫlva, she was an accomplished Seer. Her own intrinsic inclination led her to do well in all kinds of Earth-based magic. Godric here,” she taps Godric’s hand gently, “is a Battle Master, and was tasked with defending our castle against attacks. He is a master of Transfiguration and Defence Magic. The element of air is his.”

She smiles. “Hrodwunn, dear Hrodwunn, was always a seeker of knowledge. She held knowledge of many types of magic, got more Masteries by the time of Hugiweard’s founding than we could ever dream of. Chief of all was her Mastery in Charms, her extensive knowledge and mastery of languages, her documentation of magic both new and ancient. She taught more classes than any of us. Her element was water.”

Then, finally, “And I, Potions Master, hoarder of all plants and herbs known to mankind,” here she smiles broadly, “I have an excellent grasp of Duelling Magic, as well as Defence magic. My element is fire.”

“For, you see, Myrddin knew exactly what he was doing when he brought us all together. He’d not only gathered talented, powerful magicians; he had summoned to him four particular individuals tied to the four primary elements. That is a very rare thing, even in our time.”

“He’d waited centuries,” says Godric. “Had refused to die until he was certain we were well on our way to continuing his legacy. Very bold of him, denying Death.”

The hall is completely enraptured. Eventually the penny would drop and people would truly realise that the Myrddin they speak of is none other than the legendary Merlin himself, but Harry won’t hold his breath.

“Now, you have asked Godric why we chose to come back  _ now _ , a millenia later.” Salah holds their gaze for a moment. “After my tenure as Headmistress had ended—yes, I see your surprise, we will tackle that, but our time here came to an end, and so we passed on our duties to our children and apprentices. Now, I know your education has lead you to believe that the United Kingdom—England, really, is the very centre of the universe, but it truly is not. Other countries, other magical communities exist, with their own wealth of knowledge, with their own struggles. We helped where we could.”

Godric chimes in, “It’s difficult to express how vast the world is, how rich in various histories. We wanted to learn. And in the process we became witness to destruction you could not even begin to imagine—destruction at the hands of those governing England.” He sighs. “You could not fathom how many people and histories, both magical and not, have perished and been abused all in the name of England. So, no, we did not come back before, because our voice, strength, and compassion was required elsewhere.”

He continues, “But we did come back, and it was to chaos, disruption. Most excruciating was discovering how isolated the magical community here had become, how insular, arrogant in that solitude. This school stands in what is now Scotland, but look at how few Scottish students are present here. Has anyone ever stood still and thought of that? Only one school for the whole of the British Isles? Perhaps in our time that had been enough, but now? It’s ridiculous. The way history has gone, I would imagine there to be one school for Ireland, Wales, England, and Scotland at the  _ very least _ . The fact that only Hugiweard stands is...troubling.”

“And yet,” says the Hat, “the school is not united.”

“Even more troubling,” says Godric. “Petty squabbles over Houses and colours, some idiotic tripe about blood purity and whatnot. As a community, Brittain’s magicians have gone utterly backwards. You’re alienated, alone. You think yourselves superior thanks to rather trivial matters, and it’s all festered into an ugly boil you call Voldemort and his Death Eaters.”

“Mind you,” Salah says. “We had our evil magicians and all sorts of cults attempting to usurp power. But nothing like this—nothing that, at its very roots, has been watered by ill sentiment and a horrible, systemic ideology. Nothing so ingrained in society that it would spawn two powerful megalomaniacs in less than a century.”

“Grindelwald,” Ron whispers. There’s something like terror in his voice, but the tale continues, and Harry can’t process so many things at once.

“At the very center stands this school,” says Salah, “where the divisions and isolations begin early, with a sorting.”

“This,” Godric gestures at the hall, “is not how we envisioned our school to grow. It has shrunk. In our day, we had two teachers overseeing the progress of each level of education. We had a main teacher and their most advanced apprentice oversee classes, and auxiliary teachers in case someone fell ill. We taught Transfiguration, Charms, Defence, Musicology, several forms of art such as painting, weaving, woodcarving, and sculpting. We had Astronomy, Runic Magic, Healing Magic, Woodspeaking; we taught Latin, Franceis, Arabic, Mandarin. We had a specialised class for the theories behind magic, and another for advanced Elemental magic...”

If Hermione vibrates any more, the entire hall will go with her. As is, Harry fears for the bench she and Ron share. On the other side, he’s half-certain Luna  _ glows _ .

“And Potions and Herbology were not separate classes,” Godric finishes. “You need one for the other. We also had several lessons in combat and duelling. You may say this was necessary in our times of swords and armour, but can any of you defend yourselves without a wand? The moment you are disarmed, you have lost. This is an enormous gap in your education.”

“Another important gap,” says Salah, “is communication with non-magical people. The Statute was integrated for a reason, yes,” she nods at the raised arm of a Ravenclaw boy, “but it has done more harm than good. You don’t know their history, nor their advancements. Humans have been on the moon, have discovered faster ways of communicating, but magicians still use quills and parchment.”

“Very few other countries agreed to the Statute.” Salah pauses. “And, well, the United States don’t abide by it so much as they just...loop around it. It’s rather entertaining to watch, I can’t lie.”

Hermione raises her hand. When pointed to, she asks, “What was it like, in your time? Communication with mu—non-magical people?”

They have to think on it for a moment, but eventually Salah says, “It’s perhaps difficult to conceptualise given the current obsession with bloodlines, but there really wasn’t a hard line between communities. We lived together under the rule of our leaders. Everyone understood the general principle of magic, and sacred sites often overlapped with magical ones. Any fiefdom housed both magical and non-magical inhabitants. If you needed medicine, you would go to your local Potioneer and ask; if you wanted something mended quickly, you could ask a neighbour.”

“Armies had their Battle Magicians,” says Godric, “and the Witenaġemot had seats for magicians up until the 11th century, when the magicians split off to create their Witanġemot, the predecessor for the Wizengamot.” Godric stops for a moment, looks above, thinking. “Both the Witenaġemot and the subsequent Witanġemot would advise the King on important matters. The Witanġemot was primarily concerned with matters of magic and magical law, and so any problems that arose would go through them. Eventually they became their own branch of the law, and presided over trials as well as the passing of new laws pertaining to magic.”

The Hat harrumphs. “Many a wizened magician voted against the Statute. They were most unhappy, indeed. Many more lives were unrightfully divided, planting a terrible seed.”

“You know, I never told you to speak in rhyme,” Godric says.

“I did so decide, and speak with pride.” The Hat seems to  _ wiggle _ happily. “Many a lie has been spread within these halls, and far far beyond, outside Hogwarts’ walls. Heed me now, for records I keep: founders return, and the school rouses from sleep. Listen you must and their wisdom do trust. Danger creeps, and slowly will seep, if you do not take heart, what they here impart.”

Satisfied, the Hat goes still again, waiting. Salah and Godric share a look, but keep their opinions to themselves.

“Well, we’ve had the Witanġemot,” says Salah. “What else—yes?”

Ginny has a turn. “You were headmistress.”

“Well, at first we intended to appoint Hrodwunn, as she was the wisest of us. But she would not have taken well to the position, not with how it would have interfered with her passion for knowledge and research. Helga was, at the very core of her being, a teacher. The management of an entire school would not have suited her well. And Godric,” here she smiles, glances at Godric, “well, he is a warrior, the protector. We had several kingdoms around us vying for control, for power. What Hugiweard needed at its helm is someone who not only understood that, but also knew how to plan, to make and keep allies, to remain painstakingly neutral when necessary, to appease, to be politic. And I was  _ incredibly _ well-suited for that.”

Something about her explanation makes a few bells go off in Harry’s head, like he’s staring at something obvious but can’t grasp it, until it hits him like a freight train:  _ Dumbledore is a political animal. _ It makes him a good headmaster, what with the board of directors and a government that likes to meddle, but with nothing else to temper him, what does that mean for fighting a war? What is he willing to sacrifice ‘for the Greater Good’?

Harry risks a look back at Dumbledore. The current headmaster looks on serenely, yet with great interest. His robes shimmer in the candlelight, magenta and pink and light blue, like some sort of iridescent sheen. With yellow stars.

They’re taking questions now.

“You’re from Spain, you said,” asks a Hufflepuff. “Well, Andalusia.” When Salah nods, she continues, “Why do you sound more like professor McGonagall?” A chitter goes through the hall, and even McGonagall looks amused, pleased even.

“To spite the English,” Salah says glibly.

Hermione calls out, “You’re  _ married _ to an Englishman.”

“And he knows the sins of his people.”

At Salah’s side, Godric grins widely. Perhaps, just perhaps, he shouldn’t look so  _ happy _ about it, but then it’s  _ Godric, _ and he’s utterly, completely, absolutely insane. In fact, now that Harry thinks about it, he should be more wary of insanity from the corner than from his mum’s; Godric is the prototypical Gryffindor from which every Gryffindor afterwards inherits a nugget of sheer, unlimited madness.


	3. The Gaunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you have to submit to unpleasant things to unearth unpleasant truths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TERFling is back on her bullshit.
> 
> Edit: changed the description of the locket because for some reason I've always visualised it to have a red gem. No idea how THAT happened.

“Here’s a list of potential Death Eater students,” Draco says on Saturday morning. He hands Godric a note. “Millicent and I agree on all of them, based on their public and private reactions to Salah’s pregnancy and yesterday’s tale.”

They’re having breakfast in their wing, which means Harry’s only been truly awake for an entire five minutes and then some. He’s still in pajamas. They’re comfortable, he has tea, and the sky is looking a good deal cloudier than it had for most of summer, like proper Scotland.

Yesterday had proven a success, of sorts. Many students had stayed up late to discuss what they’d heard; the Gryffindor common room had been positively abuzz with talk and arguments—what could they believe? Should they? Well, the Hat had been there, and it had been convincing. But what if the Hat is enchanted?

It had gone on until Ginny had shouted for them all the shut it and either believe it, or toss it all out as rubbish. Of course everyone wanted _Harry_ to answer their questions, seeing as he had all this _access_ to Salah and Godric, so what did _he_ think of all of this? Well, Harry had decided to leave them all to their foolishness and go to bed.

And Draco had come back with a list of baby Death Eaters.

“Ah,” says Salah. “Something good came out of this pregnancy.”

Godric places a hand on his chest. “Yes. Our _child_. The culmination of our love. How d—”

Salah covers his face with her hand, which is surprisingly and immediately effective. “Thank you, Draco. Send Millicent our gratitude as well. And tell Blaise he looks very pretty with his new haircut.”

“Oh, no,” says Draco. “I will not tell him. He’ll preen for days.”

Salah shrugs in a way clearly meant to convey that that is _not her problem at all_. Draco shouldn’t look so betrayed; after all, she no longer has to reside in the Slytherin common room. Then again, neither does he.

“Pansy’s on here,” Salah murmurs. She looks up at Draco, and he stares right back; something about it breaks Harry’s heart. They must’ve been good friends; at the very least they hung around with each other a lot.

Draco says, “Her parents are in too deep, like mine. Unlike me, she doesn’t have a way out of that.” He shrugs when Salah inclines her head, saddened. “It just is what it is. You can’t save everyone.”

“We can try,” says Godric.

“Careful,” Draco says, “Your Gryffindor is showing.”

“Oh, heavens me.” Godric turns to his wife. “Sal, whatever shall I do? Do I button up my shirt? Do I hide forever from the light of the sun?”

She looks at him evenly, leans in, and kisses him. Godric pretends to melt away, then has to clamber back unto his chair and into some decorum.

“Do _you_ have a nickname for him?” Draco juts his chin at Godric. “He calls you ‘Sal’...”

“A nickname? Whyever for?” Salah sips primly at her tea. “He knows he’s a god; he doesn’t need the reminder.”

“It wouldn’t _hurt_ ,” says Godric. His cheeks have gone a bit pink, and there’s something eternally amused about him, but also entirely in love with his wife, and it’s the sweetest thing, other than the treacle tart Harry has yet to get to. He’d asked very nicely for it to be part of his breakfast.

Godric folds the list. “Well, that is one House. I’m sure we’ll ferret out the others over the course of this term.”

With a surreptitious glance at Draco, Harry says, “Draco certainly is good at ferreting. Out. Thi—”

“You prick!” Draco swats at him with the nearest newspaper, which had arrived earlier then the _Prophet_ usually does in the morning. It still hurts all the same, and Harry’s arms are thoroughly reddened by the time Draco stops, out of breath.

“I’m sure there’s a _fascinating_ story behind that,” says Salah, “but I’d like my paper back now. It’s good quality.”

Still, Draco clutches it in his hands, a threat. He’s doing his best not to at least smile as Harry laughs. At least _some_ part of him thinks it’s funny, so Harry doesn’t really have to worry all too much about being murdered in his sleep this or any other night.

“Come on, lad,” says Godric. “I’m sure she’ll give it back.”

“Yeah, Draco,” says Harry, “I’m sure she’ll let you rip it up and use it to build a ne—” he has to duck away to avoid the strike, but at least now Draco laughs, too.

He threatens Harry once more with the rolled paper before he hands it to Salah, who accepts it graciously. It’s indeed not the _Prophet_ or any publication Harry knows; it’s something called _The Sunday Report_ , and it has the most pleasant yet eye-catching cover that Harry has seen yet. Much of the Quibbler is simply wacky, and much of the _Prophet_ seems haphazard.

But this one has one headline, _The Regal Founders’ Return_ , with a wide-shot portrait of Salah and Godric sat on the sofa of a cozy sitting room. Even in sepia tone, they look elegant and at ease; Salah’s eyes twinkle happily, and Godric has a content smile, friendly, approachable. They could have been any couple. They’re not.

It must be an early copy of the Flores’ paper.

“Our interview is on page three,” Godric says absently. He’s gotten to his tea now, having waited for it to settle at a perfect temperature.

“I’m more interested in this one with Amelia Bones,” Salah tells him. “I already know what we said in _our_ interview.”

Godric shrugs. He’s more interested in his tea.

“You’re the worst,” Harry says at the same as Draco says, “Well, _I_ don’t.”

Something else piques Salah’s interest. “Ooh, she alludes to an interview with the Indian Minister of External Affairs, how bold.” She giggles. “‘Minister Gujral and I have been in contact many a time, and as he will no doubt tell you, getting our government around to contact theirs is a nightmare.’” Salah shakes her head.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” says Godric. “I was under the impression they haven’t spoken for roughly a hundred years? Two hundred?”

Salah turns the page. “‘Minister Inder Gujral confirms he has spoken to Madam Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Unfortunately, most of this contact is not officially recognised, as the Indian government has no special department or government dealing with magical law specifically. In fact, the separation of non-magical and magical affairs has been non-existent since Jawaharlal Nehru’s term as Prime Minister. The author would like to indicate that this has been a point of contention between Britain and its many former colonies.’” Salah snorts. “Well, he certainly worded that carefully.”

Godric puts aside this tea. “I’m cancelling my subscription to the _Prophet._ ”

“Yes!” Harry throws his arms up. “Finally.”

“No, no,” says Salah. “We can’t just yet. We need to know what the inferior tabloids are saying; sometimes there are worthy tidbits in there. _And_ I must know what slander they spread.”

Both Godric and Harry groan, share a look. She’s right, of course; the _Prophet_ may be irritating and often full of false reports, but it’s a way to keep an eye out for rumours and the like, and has the additional benefit of informing them as to what idiocy the public is being fed. At least it’s not Harry’s money that’s going to it; he’ll subscribe to the _Report_ as soon as he can.

“What else is in there?” Draco asks. He lays aside his cutlery, signalling that he is done with breakfast.

“A list of known Death Eaters, an article on dark magic and intent—oh, they spoke to you about that, didn’t they, Godric? An article on the investigation and upcoming trial of that Selwyn woman, an article on the tireless work of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects—an interview with Arthur Weasley, good man!” She hands Draco the paper. “And our interview.”

“Thank you.” Draco takes the paper eagerly, leans sideways just enough that Harry can read along.

It’s presented more as something one would find in a magazine than a proper newspaper, and yet it all fits seamlessly with the rest. None of the information Mr Flores, the interviewer, gathers is anything Harry hasn’t heard before; it’s a short introduction of Salah and Godric, their history, the millennium since Hogwarts’ founding, and a differently worded repetition of why they’d returned now.

 _“We’d like to see magical society thrive again,”_ Godric is quoted as saying. _“So much has changed, yet magicians have left so much potential untapped.”_

 _“First we deal with the walking corpse, of course,”_ Salah had said.

On the last page is a moving, detailed copy of the family tree Harry has now nearly memorised. Unlike the one that had appeared in _The Quibbler_ , which had focused on Voldemort’s line specifically, this one shows the entire tree, ending at both Tom Marvolo Riddle, and Harry James Potter of Griffon’s Door and al-Tagr Zamarad.

That confirms his adoption to the public, then. Harry grins.

After his treacle tart and a good shower, Harry and Draco go down to join the rest of the school. Quidditch tryouts are sometime in the afternoon, after a hearty lunch to boost their spirits. For now, they meet with Ron and Hermione by the lake; it’s still a cloudy day, though the sky is a bit bluer than Harry remembers it from earlier.

A light breeze carries them along. From time to time, the sun peeks out from behind the clouds before it is gone again, fleeting. It’s good enough weather to fly, especially if the skies clear up more during the day. He’s going to savour every last bit of sunlight; the weather’s bound to only get wetter from here on out, the short autumnal weeks before winter comes barrelling in with a vengeance.

For all that it’s a Saturday, the lake is mostly deserted. A few younger students mill about, and a whole lot of them give Harry starry-eyed looks, but he pays them no mind. It’s Saturday, and he finally has some free time on his hands.

Hermione and Draco emphatically do not care to leave their schoolwork behind.

“But do you think _Algiz_ refers to protection, or—”

Draco sighs. “There’s some references to an elk-sedge or elk-god, but that comes from the Old English _eolh_ , and I rather like the Common Germanic use of defence or protection, to be honest.”

“Why are we talking about this,” says a weary Ron. Possibly he’s been hearing about it since morning, given how frazzled Hermione had been when they’d greeted her. She’s still bitter about confusing ehwaz with eihwaz, Harry surmises.

“Because it’s important,” Hermione says, eying him frostily. “Professor Babbling gave us _nothing_ to work with in regards to this specific Rune—”

“You know who _was_ around at that time?” says Draco. “Helga.”

“Hufflepuff?” Hermione gives a little gasp. “Sorry, Hjörulfsdóttir.”

Nobody can really blame her; it’s a mouthful of foreign sounds, which they _could_ have gotten accustomed to if some wanker or other hadn’t decided to butcher the name into something softer, stripped of its historical context.

“There’s a painting,” Draco says, “you must’ve noticed; they’d just moved it to the entrance hall. We can ask her.” He unfolds himself gracefully, strides forward. They have to sprint a bit to catch up; Harry almost slips on the wet grass.

To his left, Ron mutters curses as they go. Unlike Harry, who has managed to finish all his homework, Ron has pushed it all to this evening, if only so he can enjoy _some_ of his Saturday. Still, Harry is interested in this particular endeavor. He’ll never take Ancient Runes; he has Potions and Defence to keep him busy.

From the corner of his eyes, he sees two figures approach, girls. They look much alike—brown hair, blue eyes, and Slytherin colours. Twins. Draco veers to the left to avoid them—

“Afraid to sleep in your own dorm, Malfoy?” says the girl on the left.

“You should be,” says her twin.

Draco freezes in place; Harry accidentally bumps against him, grabs his arm. It’s not a good look if they get into a fight with seventh-years.

They’re a few hundred paces from the steps. The door is open, and most students seem to be _here_ , of all places, on the threshold, all watching the exchange with keen, hungry eyes. Most of them would never have even known about where Draco does or does not sleep; this is calculated.

Hermione responds quickly, eyes darting between Draco’s rigid stance and the delighted grins on the twins’ faces. In perfect, Prefect manner, “Open threats get you reported to your head of house.”

The second girl laughs. “Need a mudblood to come to your defence, Malfoy?”

Several people hold their breaths. Had Hermione been a touch lighter-skinned, she would go visibly red in the face, but as it is Ron does that for her in truly angry tones. Harry braces himself for... _something._

But Draco relaxes, turns to face his aggressors. His tone is icy, “Let’s get a few things clear, Hestia, Flora,” he looks at the second, then the first girl, “If you prize your own skin, you will not use that word anywhere near where Salah Zaahir or Godric of Gryposcire can catch wind of it. Or, please do; it’ll be entertaining.”

The grins on the girls’ identical faces sag a notch. They’ll have experienced Salah and Godric by now. Draco continues, in the same dispassionate tone, “Furthermore, Hermione Granger holds more spells in a single brilliant cell of hers than you do collectively in your entire bodies. I’d not challenge her,” his eyes fix on Hestia, “unless your aim has become better than a flacid flobberworm.”

Done, he whirls around and leaves them behind in a din of chitters. Harry hurries along, throwing a glance at a now less red Ron; they’ve always known how mean Draco can be, what with having been his primary targets not so long ago. Compared to that, Draco had been downright lethal to the twins.

When Draco finally slows down, at the front doors of Hogwarts, shoulders squared, he says, “Whichever God had allowed Amycus Carrow to procreate should stand and answer for their crimes.”

“You really think I’m brilliant?” asks Hermione.

“Was that in question?” She blinks at him. Annoyed, Draco says, “Granger, you’ve been at the top of every class ever since you arrived—”

“Booksmarts—”

“And I’m sure if you applied yourself, you’d be properly terrifying.” Draco frowns. “On second thought, maybe don’t. You’d make Salah proud.”

Hermione smiles. “You said something about a painting?”

A copy of the painting in the fifth floor wing awaits them in the entrance hall. Very few students seem to be paying attention to the change; the landscape is mostly empty. Under a tree sleeps a girl in a beautiful turquoise gown; someone Harry hasn’t seen before but feels he should recognise.

“Hullo?” says Draco.

She wakes slowly, stirring from sleep. A yawn later, she blinks her eyes open—pale grey to rival Draco’s own, a stark contrast to her dark, dark hair. Her skin is a bronze-brown that goes well with the gown she wears. She looks at them curiously, and Harry is _sure_ he’s seen her before, impossibly beautiful—

“Blimey,” says Ron, “you’re the Grey Lady!”

Bemused, the girl sits up straighter. She can’t be any older than them, but Harry has never seen someone hold herself with such poise. She says, “I’m Eleni Hrabnazklaw. Or Helena Ravenclaw, as many have taken to. How may I help you?”

“You’re Rowena Ravenclaw’s daughter?” asks Ron. He looks a bit sheepish, says, “Sorry, I can’t be sure I won’t pronounce your names horribly.”

Eleni bows her head. “You’re forgiven.” She looks them all over. “Do you seek my mother? She’ll be in the library; I’m afraid it offends her greatly.”

“Understandable,” says Draco. “No, we seek Helga. Do you know where we might find her?”

They’ve attracted a bit of a crowd again, now whispering. Everyone’s seen the ghost of the Grey Lady, but she is a silent presence in these halls. Given a few years, Harry can easily see Eleni become the Ghost of Ravenclaw. At least in the painting she is happy, smiling at them kindly.

“Aunt Helga went to visit Pallas, my sister.” Eleni folds her hands over her lap. “You’ll have to wait until she returns. Unless I can help you…?”

Hermione steps forward. “Do you know Runes?”

“Of course.” Eleni perks up. “I’ve always loved them. What is it that vexes you about them?”

“Well, there’s this one, _algiz_ , that we can’t figure out. Most sources are convinced it means elk, but one is very particular about it being—”

“Protection.” Eleni nods. “It all depends on how one wishes to use it. In common parlance, it could very well refer to an elk. With magic, things get more complicated. It’s all about intent and belief. With the right focus, _algiz_ can mean both things, or none at all.” She considers it for a moment. “When it comes to magic, see runes more as vehicles than meaning proper. Their meaning is more guidance than rule.” She nods again. “Does that help?”

“Nope,” says Ron. Hermione steps on his foot.

“Immensely,” says Draco. “Give our warm regards to Helga, please.”

“Oh, I shall.”

They’ve possibly made her day. Certainly, she’s made Hermione’s entire week, though Harry can’t understand for the life of him how any of this is applicable to their class; Ancient Runes is mostly about translation, not application. If anything, this would complicate their understanding of, well, everything.

When he asks Hermione, she says, “Well, Professor Babbling would certainly say so, but that would only be the case if you’re looking at the runes individually. They have names. Each rune also corresponds to a letter, or rather a _sound_ we associate with a letter. So, for instance, _fehu_ is a ‘f’ sound like ‘feather’, _uruz_ is an ‘oo’ sound, _thurisaz_ is at the beginning of thunder, _ansuz_ is a sound found both in lead and lay, _raido_ is an r, and _kaunan_ rounds up the futhark.”

“That’s just the elder, Granger,” Draco points out. “There’s still the younger, and the Anglo-Saxon futhorc.”

“Oh, hush. We don’t learn the futhorc.”

Ron snorts. “Good thing I shan’t learn any of that, then.”

As Harry would rather live to see Sunday, he doesn’t agree out loud anywhere near Hermione, Draco, or Eleni; as long as nobody ever expects him to know anything about whichever version of runes, he’ll surely be fine. Granted, he _is_ rather intrigued.

Now fully aware of the girl in the painting, several students amass beneath it and accost Eleni with questions. She remains her poised self, patiently answering the deluge of questions. She had been one of Hugiweard’s very first students, and there’s something poetic about that, Harry thinks.

They have an hour or so to kill before lunchtime, and Quidditch after. He already has a plan for that, which leaves him to consider how he’ll pick up the whole tutoring situation; sixth-year has proven busy, and he does have to captain and entire team. Hermione has her course-load under control, but it won’t hurt to recruit a few more people across years to help out. Hermione can coordinate the entire thing.

So that leaves candidates. Ginny’s good with charms and Defense, Neville is their best at Herbology. It’s good to recruit from other Houses, too, build a more diverse roster to attract all the kids. A little inter-House solidarity wouldn’t hurt anyone; if anything it hopefully will bring down some walls.

Draco knows Slytherin. Luna knows Ravenclaw. They just need a Hufflepuff.

Deep in thought, he almost walks all over Elicia Chidester. She’s dressed in a green jumper, too, almost matching the grass outside. It suits her.

“A note,” she chirps at him, all big brown eyes and cute round cheeks. She hurries back to her friends—a boy from Hufflepuff and another Slytherin girl.

Ron and Hermione keep walking; they’re a few steps ahead and haven’t noticed anything amiss. At this point Harry is both wary and weary of getting notes; if people want him, they’d better just speak to him directly.

It’s from Slughorn. Harry groans.

“I’ve been cordially invited to the Slug Club,” Harry informs Draco.

“The what?”

Harry hands Draco the invitation without further comment. He has the pleasure and the privilege of witnessing Draco’s facial journey, and that is something that ought go into a Pensieve. For posterity. At some point Draco even does a double take, though he doesn’t keep the reason why to himself.

“ _Please do bring Mister Malfoy along_.” Draco looks up from the letter, outraged. “I’m not anybody’s ‘plus one’! Harry please tell me you’re not joining this—this farce.” He tosses the note away.

Harry pretends to consider it.

“Harry!”

“Of course not,” says Harry, indignant. “It’s some dumb elitist club so that Old Sluggy can do his leeching. I’m done being leeched on.”

“Although,” says Draco, to Harry’s greatest horror, “we could use the opportunity to get to know him better.”

“I don’t want to know him better! I rue the day I _met_ him!”

“Think, Harry,” Draco says. “Dumbledore wanted him here for a reason. Now we have a way to get close to him and find out. It’s what Salah would do.”

That is so painfully correct it slaps Harry in the face with a boulder. It is a perfect opportunity to unravel the puzzle that is Slughorn’s return to his post as Potions professor, as dubious a task as he thinks it is. It would certainly give them more information on Slughorn himself, to look at his motives beyond the scope of what Slughorn performs.

It’s as if Draco can see the cogs in Harry’s head whirring. “Time to inform our Overlady of Slytherin?”

“Yes.” Harry sighs. “Draco, this means I have to go to Dumbledore’s private lessons, too.” When Draco stares, blankly, Harry explains, “We need both sides of the equation if we’re to figure out why Dumbledore wants him here.”

“Oh, curses. You’re right.” Draco looks at the note again. “Oh, this won’t do.”

“Well, it’ll have to.”

***

They catch Godric just outside of Salah’s office, apparently there to walk with her to the Hall for lunch. Once inside, away from any prying ears, Harry does his best to explain his new plan.

“Oh, this pains me,” Godric says once Harry’s done.

Salah snorts. “He means it's a good, sneaky idea. Information-gathering.” She gives Harry a smile. “We’ll allow it. But be careful, please. Dumbledore won’t be happy if he finds out you’re spying on him for us.”

Harry has through the entirety of lunch to ponder it, and then the Quidditch tryout gets all his attention. The pitch is blessedly free of interlopers, though to be entirely truthful, some of these candidates _are_ practically interlopers. Half of Gryffindor House must be here, and some whom Harry doesn’t even recognise as part of his House. He has to send a bunch of them away just on sight; those had come simply because they’d wanted a glimpse of Harry James Potter, the Chosen One—he _hates_ the _Prophet_.

“Everyone _not_ from Gryffindor, please leave!” He shouts over the group.

A group of Hufflepuffs leaves, and after a stern look, so do the second-year Ravenclaws.

The rest can at least mount a broom. Their skill at flight is a bit more tenuous, and their grasp of Quidditch in general highly questionable. Ron does good, at least; his experience from last year putshim leaps and bounds ahead of everyone else. Katie Bell returns and performs excellently, making Harry _weep_ with pure joy. Between those two and Ginny—who is Godsent; she’s better than Ron, her style about as insane as the twins’—between Ron, Katie, and Ginny, Harry finds something workable.

Demelza Robins is also a gem, rather specifically good at dodging Bludgers, which is an excellent quality for Chasers. Nobody, of course, could ever match the sheer madness of Fred and George, but Jimmy Peakes and Ritchie Coote are decent.

By the end he’s cobbled together a team, and developed a spasm in his right eye. But he has a team.

“Well, that went well,” Ron says when they’re out of the showers.

“Never speak to me of today again,” says Harry. The muscle spasm persists.

At least he’s freshly showered by the time he finds Draco again, in Gryffindor Tower, accompanied by...Dean Thomas. It’s not that Harry had expected everyone in Gryffindor to reject Draco outright, though the thought _had_ crossed his mind many a time. It’s just odd to find his boyfriend sat cosy in Gryffindor tower, commiserating with Dean Thomas on how best to use _water-colours_ to get a desired effect on paper.

“What’s this?” He kisses Draco’s cheek, but his boyfriend doesn’t even blink, let alone budge.

“They’ve made _pencils_ that can do this?” Draco says, incredulous. He has them in his hands—a case Harry has seen strewn along with Dean’s belongings.

“Sure,” says Dean, grinning. “Any shop worth their salt has them.”

To preserve his own life, Harry wouldn’t say that Draco _squees_ , exactly; it’s more like a tiny squeak. Well, Christmas is coming up, and he sends Dean a grateful look for saving him the trouble of having to think for, oh, ten seconds on what he’d give Draco in a couple of months.

He could possibly listen for hours to Draco and Dean prattle on about colours and gradients and how versatile acrylics are, but the fact of the matter is that he understands none of it, and Ron requires help with Potions, having barely scraped by to get into Snape’s class in the first place. Ron’s a hardhead, but at least he pays attention to Harry, and the occasional remark from Draco.

They go down to dinner and back to the common room; suddenly seven p.m. is much nearer than Harry cares for; it’s been a good day and he’s not up for the general bad feeling Dumbledore now gives him, nor for the vague instructions and the implicit expectations. Is he supposed to be a hero or a sacrifice? He can’t tell.

Perhaps that is the wrong question. Martyrs exist, after all. So the question isn’t in the _what_ ; it’s in the _how_ and _when._

All in all, Harry’s outlook is bleak from Dumbledore’s perspective. Even if Salah insists that Harry needn’t die to fulfill the prophecy, it’s likely Dumbledore isn’t as...enlightened, on the topic. It’s not like he had ever bothered to tell Harry or even the Order about Horcruxes, and most books on the subject insist that to destroy a soul fragment, one must destroy its container.

It’s just Harry’s rotten luck that he’s the container.

By the time Harry reaches Glyrna, he’s miserable and more than a little pissed off. She regards him sardonically, her face all the more catlike for it. 

“Hullo,” Harry says tersely.

“Now, don’t be so glum, lad,” she says. “The man’s already dying; no need to give him _that_ look.”

“You know?” Last he’d heard, Dumbledore’s still playing it off like nothing’s wrong, certainly not like he’s got an entire hand _rotting_ it’s way up his body. It’s going to be a right mess after he’s died, and certainly a big shock.

Glyrna sneers, but it’s not directed at Harry. “I sniffed it out, I did. Didn’t tell _him_ of course; not like he’s ever bothered asking me anything. He just wants me to remember his candies.”

Harry looks her over. Glyrna is solid grey stone, like any gargoyle, with fearsome claws and wings that could possibly kill a man if she cares to strike with them. Gargoyles are meant to keep out evil spirits, and they look mighty frightful to fit the task. Hogwarts is, however, a school, and as far as Harry knows children don’t quite count as evil spirits.

“Are you bored, possibly?” he asks.

She looks down her nose. “Possibly.” And then she hops aside, revealing the stairway up.

When Harry reaches the top, he knocks gently, waits for the quiet command to come in. It’s only as he steps in that it occurs to him that Dumbledore could easily have not been here; Harry’d never sent word that he would come, and very few people could come up here in the first place, not knowing the password.

If Dumbledore is surprised, he hides it quickly. Instead, he sets aside his quill and parchment, looking at Harry over his half-moon glasses. “Good evening, Harry. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Er, good evening, sir.” Harry steps forward, feigns nerves.

“Do your parents know you’re here?”

“No.” A necessary lie. Dumbledore’s not prying yet, in Harry’s head, but it’s not like Harry has any memory of telling his parents anything. Besides, Lily and James are with him, granting comfort. Whatever Dumbledore intends, Harry is not alone. “They would never agree to this, but I was—am curious.”

“And you are most welcome.” Dumbledore raises his wand, softly says, “Accio.”

The Pensieve comes gliding from its place in the cupboard. Harry doesn’t have particularly good memories of the thing; the last time he’d been inside one, he’d seen the sentencing of several people, including Barty Crouch Jr., and the Lestranges. The last one in particular, brings a bad taste to his mouth; at least the Longbottoms have now recuperated.

“Today,” says Dumbledore, “We have permission from Mr. Ogden to view his memories.” When Harry looks up from the Pensieve, confused, Dumbledore explains, “He worked at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He died some time ago, but by then I had already tracked him down and asked for this memory. Now if you will accompany me…”

They stand. The headmaster struggles to uncork a flask; his injured hand is stiff, painful, and Harry is a second away from offering his help when the cork goes flying across the room. Something clinks and breaks, but Dumbledore smiles pleasantly and pours a silvery substance into the Pensieve.

“After you, Harry.”

Not without some trepidation, Harry bows over the Pensieve and lets the odd, gaseous-liquid-but-not-really-either substance take him into its mist.

The world topples.

He lands on grass, he thinks. It’s a country lane, upon further inspection, with tall, tangling hedgerows at its borders. The sky is the bright blue of summer, with a sun so dazzling Harry might just go blind. It’s not the best part of town, nor is it the worst, and a wooden signpost is supposed to tell them where they are, and where they could go.

Under it stands a short, port man with enormous glasses. This would be Ogden, then, dressed as any magician inexperienced with Muggle fashion. Why the man had thought a _bathing_ costume would be appropriate is truly beyond Harry; there is no sea or beach in sight, and the signpost tells him they are squarely in the middle of town.

Ogden takes off at a brisk pace. Harry has enough time to register GREAT HANGLETON 5 MILES, LITTLE HANGLETON 1 MILE, before he has to sprint to catch up to Ogden and Dumbledore. Something terrible settles in his stomach; he doesn’t have good experiences with Little Hangleton either.

Little Hangleton lies nestled between two hills, a village in a valley, with its church and graveyard on one hill, and a great manor with its lush green lawn on the other. Given his luck, they wouldn’t be going to the manor.

But they do not enter the village. Instead, the lane veers off to their right, where the hedgerows grow even taller, and the path rocky and potholed. As they walk the ever-narrowing path, Harry becomes convinced the hedges want to _eat_ him; they are wild, untended things, and the path so crooked, it seems designed to lead someone into the waiting vines. Still onwards they went, into a patch of dark trees, with the hill sloping downwards, until the path opens up at a copse.

 _At least it’s not the graveyard,_ Harry thinks morosely. This is a memory, in any case; it couldn’t _hurt_ him. Could it?

Ogden draws his wand. Amidst the tangled branches and trunks stands a building. At least, something Harry would charitably label a building; it’s an off place for it, half-hidden away amongst trees, devoid of any direct light. The bright blue sky from earlier seems all but gone, except from how the sun occasionally peeks between the leaves. Nettles grow everywhere, and the walls are the mossiest things in all creation. Nobody could possibly live here; it’s overgrown, the forest haven reclaimed the property as its own. He startled when a window clatters open; smoke comes out. Someone lives her, certainly, and someone is cooking.

Ahead of them, Ogden moves as if with caution. His eyes dart about, and once he looks behind him. Harry has the distinct impression he’s looking at a bizarrely dressed mole rather than a man, but he doesn’t want to be mean. The man clearly has reason to be paranoid about this place; whoever resides here had _nailed_ a snake to their door, a warning.

Something drops from above—a man in rags. Harry gives a yelp, composes himself quickly and is happy the man hadn’t heard him. Ogden is less lucky; he’s lept so far backwards he stumbles over the frock he wears over the bathing suit.

The man is a ghastly sort of pale, with hair so matter and caked with dirt its colour is lost to history. His eyes stare firmly in opposing directions, and when he finally speaks, Harry notes several missing teeth.

_“You are not welcome.”_

“H-hello,” says Ogden, “I’m, er, from the Ministry of—”

_“You are not welcome.”_

“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

Harry frowns. The ragged man is rather clear on the matter of Ogden not being welcome, and unless he’s speaking an entirely new—

His eyes flit towards the snake. _A Parselmouth._

Whatever miserable thing had settled into his stomach intensifies. The man now comes forward, brandishes a knife as Ogden splutters. Harry would personally be rather cross with the headmaster if he brought them here just to watch a man be gutted in some dark copse. Then again...if Dumbledore had received the memory from Ogden, then the man must have survived this...encounter.

“Morfin!”

The door swings open, and out comes an elderly man with a strong resemblance to the younger one. His proportions are all strange—broad shoulders, long arms, a rather short torso and long legs. His bright brown eyes and short hair do not do much for him either, nor do the rags. He has his wand pointed at Ogden, but it’s Morfin who, with a bang, causes the Ministry man to fall, clutching his nose.

 _Morfin,_ thinks Harry. Where had he heard the name before?

“Ministry, eh?” says the elder man. “Got you good, he did.”

“Yes,” Ogden says between his teeth. The effect of his anger is curbed by how he clutches his nose. “Yes, I am from the Ministry. You’re Mr Gaunt, I presume?”

“Yes,” says Gaunt.

For a moment Harry feels like something rather heavy has dropped in his stomach. A chill goes through his entire body, and it _does not_ coincide with the breeze in Ogden’s memory. It instead brings him the answer to where he’d heard, no, _seen_ Morfin’s name before: the family tree at Gryposdor. If the younger man is _Morfin_ Gaunt, then there is little doubt in his mind that this older, scraggly looking man is Marvolo Gaunt. 

Marvolo says to Ogden, “This is private property and you haven’t announced yourself. It’s only natural my son would want defend himself.”

“Against what, man?”

“Intruders. Filth. Busybodies. _Muggles._ ”

Morfin looks far too happy over there next to his father, but it’s of short duration; Ogden points his wand at his own nose, and whatever had bothered him before is gone and done with. His hand is covered by what Harry guesses is yellow puss and, well, good riddance, that.

 _“Get in the house,”_ Marvolo mutters to his son. _“No, don’t argue, boy.”_

For a moment, it looks like Morfin will do exactly that, but his father throws him a terrifying look. He scuttles into the cottage. His gait is odd, like something’s off in his hips. It wouldn’t surprise Harry at this point; he recalls enough of this particular branch of the family tree to know that, a few centuries after John Roderick, they had started to inbreed excessively, until they might as well have been marrying their own siblings. In fact, Harry is fairly certain Marvolo had done the vertical with his own sister.

So far, his evening is not going well. 

The door to the cottage swings shut, and the snake flails about pathetically. Ogden says, “Actually, I’ve come here for your son. Morfin.”

“That was him.” Marvolo squints, looking at Ogden intently. “Are you pure-blooded?”

Annoyed, Ogden waves his hand. “That’s neither here nor there.”

The man has balls of steel, Harry’ll give him that. Marvolo, however, cares far too much about that sort of thing, as evidenced by the incessant inbreeding. It’s a miracle he hadn’t outride raped his own daughter, which—

Harry peeks at the open window. Merope should be in there somewhere.

Ogden is saying, “We sent an owl—”

“I’ve no use for owls,” says Marvolo, “I don’t open letters.”

“Can you even read,” Harry mutters.

Fortunately, Ogden is a bigger, better man. “Then you shouldn’t complain about visitors announcing themselves or not. We did send you a warning, after all.” He squares his shoulder. “I am here after we recorded a grave breach of the Statute, which occurred early this morn—”

“All right, all right!” says Marvolo. “Come into the bleeding house if that’s what you want. Much good it’ll do.”

He turns around and marches towards the cottage. Harry does his best not to focus on _his_ odd gait; it does nothing but confirm what he already knows. It’s sad, tragic, really, what Eder’s line has been reduced to, all because one man had wanted the glory of the Serpentina name.

It hadn’t seemed real, reading their names on the wall. They hadn’t really been people. Seeing them now is unsettling to a horrible degree, because now he can put faces to those names, voices and even a bit of personality. Part of Harry wants none of this, and yet here he is, with little choice. They follow Ogden inside.

The ‘bleeding house’, as Marvolo had called it, contains three tiny rooms, sparsely furnished. Morfin sits by a smoking fire, live adder in his hands, and Harry truly feels for the poor adder, trapped where it is. Snakes shouldn’t be allowed near this man. The crooning makes it worse;

_Hissy, hissy, little snakey,_

_Slither on the floor,_

_You be good to Morfin_

_Or he’ll nail you to the door._

At least one can ascertain that Morfin needn’t be drunk to be absolutely mean-spirited, and Harry hopes to god the man never ever touches a drink.

A soft, scuffling noise alerts him to another presence—Merope, dressed in rags like her brother and father, grey like the stone walls. As pale as she is, as dull is her hair, and as she fiddles with the pots and pans, standing over a steaming pot, Harry thinks he’s never seen such an utterly dejected, lonely person.

She’s not exactly pretty, aesthetically. Her eyes look in differing directions, and . She’s a bit cleaner, at least, and perhaps if someone were to give her a lifeline, drag her out of this cottage and into the light, she might be good-looking. She might’ve had a chance at a life, too, if not a _good_ life.

“‘S my daughter,” says Marvolo. “Merope.”

Merope doesn’t answer Ogden’s polite good morning, instead throwing her father a glance that tells Harry everything about their relationship all at once; she is utterly and absolutely frightened of him, probably physically abused, if not mentally. She, out of all of them, did not deserve to be in this situation.

Morfin, at least, was being summoned for a hearing at the Ministry. Harry feels not a _single_ twinge of sympathy for the man, not in the least because he’s still playing with the adder and looking close to claiming it as a victim.

“So you think you’re better than us,” Marvolo is ranting at Ogden. “You think we’re scum—scum that will come running when the Ministry tells us to! Do you know who you’re talking to you filthy muggle-loving—”

“Yes,” Ogden says patiently, “I was under the impression I had come to speak with Mr Gaunt.”

“Quite right!” Marvolo shouts, growing frothy and red with anger. “Do you know what this is?” he shows Ogden his middle finger, which is _rude_ but it does have a ring wrapped around it, an ugly thing that has lost all life and luster, and had possibly once been gold. “This ring has been in this family for Centuries! Centuries! We have carried with us the coat of arms of the Peverell line—”

Nothing could be more wrong, especially given that the Peverells had never had a coat of arms, let alone whatever Marvolo wants Ogden to see.

“Mr Gaunt,” Ogden says, still patient, voice even. “Your son has committed a—”

Now truly red and howling with rage, Marvolo grabs his daughter by the neck, except that he pulls her forward to show the necklace that hangs around her neck. It’s heavy and golden, a large S inlaid with emeralds. Once, it had been beautiful, but as with the ring, time has worn it down and it’s lost all lust for life.

“Slytherin!” Marvolo rages, “Salazar Slytherin’s ring! We are his last _descendents_ —”

“I see it!” says Ogden, “I see it, but Mr Gaunt, please, your daughter—”

But Marvolo has already let her go, and she stumbles back into the pots. Ogden throws her a worried glance, but Merope remains still where she is, as if she would want nothing more than to disappear and never be scene again. The feeling hits Harry in his chest, familiar and icy, and the more he looks at her, the more she seems to become as grey as the walls that keep her trapped.

“I am here,” Ogden insists, “because of Morfin and what he has done. Reports indicate that he attacked a Muggle and made him break out in painful hives.”

Morfin giggles. At least he seems to understand English, even if he refuses to utter a word in anything but Parseltongue.

 _“Be quiet, boy,”_ says Marvolo. To Ogden, he says, “And so what? Is it illegal now to attack those filthy—”

“Yes,” says Ogden, “it is. Morfin has a hearing on the fourteenth of Sept—”

Clopping and jingling come from outside, somewhere near the house. Two horses at least, and two riders laughing as they stop. It’s rather bold of them to come in so deep, unheeding of the danger that awaits them in the cottage. Merope seems to shrink away further into her corner, face starkly white and eyes darting between the window and her family, particularly Morfin, as if begging him not to say anything.

Of one thing Harry is absolutely certain: whatever is about to unfold is at least twice as horrible as everything he’s seen thus far.

“What a sight, my goodness,” says a female voice. “It’s so ugly. Can’t you father have it demolished, Tom?”

 _Tom._ Harry hates it when he’s right.

“We can’t,” says a male voice, Tom. “Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but this? It’s not ours. It belongs to a chump named Gaunt or somesuch. He has a son—utterly mad lad; you should hear the stories they tell in the village—”

 _“Keep your mouth,”_ Marvolo mutters angrily at his son.

“Good lord, is that a snake nailed to the door?” says the girl. “How terribly wretched.”

“Must be the son,” says Tom. “He’s entirely mad, I’ve told you. Come along now. Don’t look at it, Cecilia, darling.”

The clopping starts again, this time moving away from them. Inside the cottage, the tension has gone up several magnitudes of bad, and Merope has gone impossibly paler. Morfin, on the other hand, has a pleased look about him.

 _“Darling,”_ he says. _“He called her ‘darling’, did you hear? He’d never even look at you, let alone have you.”_

Marvolo whirls around so quickly, Harry hopes he’s caught whiplash from that and dies a slow death. _“What was that?”_

Merope shakes her head violently, but Morfin doesn’t care. _“She’s always looking at him, always out in the garden when he passes by, looking through the hedges, always hanging out the window to catch a glimpse—”_

 _“Is this true?”_ Enraged once again, Marvolo steps towards Merope, a threat. Merope shrinks away. “ _My daughter, hankering after a Muggle—pure-blooded descendant of Slytherin—you filthy little Squib, blood-traitor whore.”_

They’d all forgotten Mr Ogden by now, who stands by annoyed at the resurgence of the hissing, rasping conversation. He looks at his watch, and in that split second, Marvolo flies at Merope with such violence, he might break them both through the stone wall.

 _“I got him, though, father!”_ Morfin says, _“I gave him ugly hives and he wasn’t so pretty to look at anymore, was he?”_

Harry watches in horror as Marvolo throttles his own daughter and, Ogden, gaping, has a second to cry out and tell him to _stop_ before Morfin seizes his chance and comes at Ogden with a knife.

It’s pandemonium from there.

“That’s enough, I think,” says Dumbledore. It startles Harry so bad, he doesn’t register that they’re leaving until his knees hit the stone floor of the headmaster’s office, and he nearly throws up his entire dinner.

The office—gleaming with trinkets. It seems gauche now, after the squalor of the Gaunt cottage, and Harry’s still trembling with nausea and dizziness at how frail Merope had been, how terrible her conditions, how brutal and hot-tempered her very own father, how bloodthirsty her brother.

Careful, so as to not collapse there and then, he takes a seat in front of the headmaster’s desk.

“Undoubtedly, you’ve seen Voldemort’s family tree,” says Dumbledore.

Harry snorts. “As has half of Britain by now.”

Dumbledore lowers his head, perhaps to hide a smile. “Yes. But what I’ve shown you are the people behind the names. And, more importantly, the connection between Voldemort’s mother and father.”

There couldn’t possibly had been two people less likely to have fallen in love. Marvolo had called his daughter a Squib, and that could be true, but Harry’d spent the entire summer reading; magical powers _could_ fail to manifest properly if the victim is abused enough, and Merope certainly had been. If ever she would come free…

“I see you are very busy thinking,” says Dumbledore. “Mr Ogden came back with reinforcement from the Ministry, and they apprehended both Marvolo and his son. Morfin received three years, seeing his record, but Marvolo only six months, for attacking Ministry officials.”

“So Merope would have been free of them?”

Dumbledore nods. “Now, this is mostly guesswork, but she _was_ a witch. Can you think of anything she could have done to bend Tom Riddle to her will?”

“The Imperius curse,” says Harry. “Or Amortentia.” Those two are the most powerful, but he can’t quite see her doing either. It would require knowledge not easy to get to, and skill she would need years to build up. She wouldn’t have years, if Marvolo would return from Azkaban after six months.

“Any love potion would do,” says Dumbledore. “But whatever she did, Little Hangleton was shook up with a scandal when the squire’s son eloped to London with Marvolo’s daughter. Less than a year later, however, Tom returned.”

 _Oh, no._ “She stopped giving him the potion,” Harry deduces. “But why? She must've been pregnant already at the time, surely she’d _need_ him to stay!”

“Perhaps that is exactly why she let him go. Or perhaps, and this _is_ all guesswork, she was so besotted that she thought he would love her too.” Dumbledore pauses. “In any case, she was gravely mistaken. He left her, and told everyone about how he had been ‘hoodwinked’. I’m sure he would have said ‘bewitched’, if people wouldn’t have thought him insane for it.”

Harry can’t help it; he feels sorry for Merope for having been so utterly miserable, she had thought to resort to something so ill-advised. She must’ve had her son alone, without her family and certainly without the father. As far as Harry recalls, she had died in the exact same year Voldemort had been born, possibly during childbirth. That means Voldemort, like Harry, had never known his birth parents.

He narrows his eyes. “Wasn’t there a murder in Little Hangleton some years later?” His dream two years ago had been vague, but the groundskeeper had been arrested for it. If only the coppers had known about the killing curse, they would’ve not thought to imprison an innocent man. They’d had to release him anyway.

“Ah,” says Dumbledore, “you’ve made the connection. Indeed, sixteen years later, the Riddles were found dead in their home, faces frozen in horror. It appears Voldemort had found his uncle, and upon learning of what his father had done, had sought revenge. He took his uncle’s wand and murdered his relatives.”

“Thus framing Morfin,” Harry says. It’s just too bad Frank Bryce had had to suffer the indignity of suspicion in the meanwhile, but Voldemort truly had been a clever fiend even as a youth.

No wonder he’s so _obsessed_ with family, with his roots and connection to ‘Salazar Slytherin’. He’d murdered his own family, if not for being non-magical, for having abandoned his mother. What family had remained, he’d framed for the murder of his grandparents and father.

The windows show inky-black skies. Harry would like nothing better to leave now, as the bile comes back up in his throat. At least the Dursleys had never tried to choke him to death, _as far as he knows._

“That will do for tonight, Harry,” Dumbledore says softly.

Relieved, Harry stands. His legs shake, but he can take a few confident steps and considers that tonight’s victory. Then he sees Dumbeldore’s _hand_ again, and remembers that the man had been tricked into wearing Marvolo’s ring. It’s not on his finger, but when Harry turns away, he sees it perched on one of the spindly-legged tables, with its own silver instrument as support. It’s still ugly as all fuck.

“Oh, Harry,” says Dumbledore. When Harry looks back at him, “I think Mr Weasley and Ms Granger have proven themselves trustworthy. You may tell them what you see here. Do not repeat it to anybody else.”

A nod. He would be telling his friends everything, that is certain, but right now his destination is not Gryffindor Tower.

Outside the office, once Glyrna has cleared his path, Harry breaks out into a run.


	4. The Penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boy, a diary, a ring, a locket, and maybe repentance for those done wrong, for the downtrodden and long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [muffled laughter] I didn't actually mean to take this long to post?? Sorry??? Anyway, take this gift, now that I'm not melting in a heat wave anymore.

“Marvolo showed him a locket, you’re sure of this?” says Salah.

Every terrible detail of the memory, from Bob Ogden’s choice of clothes to the snake nailed at the door, to the dull colour of Merope’s hair—had fallen out of Harry seeking relief from the burden of knowing. Why Salah chooses to focus on this particular detail and not, say, how entirely unpleasant Voldemort’s family history is, is a mystery to him.

“I’m sure.”

The silence is full, waiting. Harry thinks back on the locket—green stones on the pendant, a chain of gold, old and intricate, clearly one of a kind, once beautiful. It must have been something special, for someone important, but all its prettiness had been worn down. Along with the ring, it’s likely the only possession the Gaunts had that were worth any galleons, but they had been too proud to sell them.

Godric curses. “Must be the one Eder gave you.” He shakes his head. “If Voldemort went back there, he must’ve known about the ring and the locket. He could have easily snatched them…”

“And used them as containers,” Salah concludes. “What are the odds of one and not the other. Slim, I’d say.”

Well, _now_ Harry has to concede it’s an important detail. They matter, don’t they—the details. Voldemort could have inherited the locket from his mother, then found his uncle with the ring. The latter is, at least, already done and over with, but that leaves the locket somewhere out there, a dreadful container to a vile fragment.

At Harry’s side, Draco sits back. “Why is Voldemort choosing such random objects? A diary, a locket, a ring…”

“They’re not random,” says Salah. Her eyes are distant. “ _My_ locket. _His_ diary. His _grandfather’s_ ring, thought to bear the Peverell coat of arms. These are objects of significance to Tom Riddle—objects that belong to his family, and thus, to him.” She grabs pen and paper, begins writing. “Diary, locket, ring, Nagini, Harry. There are bound to be more out there. Five is not a significant number in our folklore. Seven is.”

“Winky,” says Godric. The Elf comes quickly. “Winky, do you or the other Elves know of any soul fragment containers within Hogwarts?”

Confused, Harry says, “Why within Hogwarts?”

“It’s a place of significance. He went to school here. He studied magic, recruited followers, killed a student—all here. At least one of his soul fragments could be hidden here for safekeeping.” Godric looks at Winky. “Could you find one?”

“I don’t know of any, master Godric,” says Winky. “But I is prepared to start a search.”

“Please d—”

“Mother’s diadem.”

The voice comes from the painting. Eleni has come to the front, another girl at her side, hand on Eleni’s shoulder. By their stunning resemblance, this must be Pallas, Eleni’s sister and Idris’ wife. It strikes Harry only then that this would be his sister-in-law, and that he has at least one nephew.

Eleni looks pallid, eyes tearing up. “I followed Harry to the headmaster’s office. I couldn’t see what they saw, but if you’re talking about soul fragments…” She wipes away at her eyes. “I told that terrible man where I hid mother’s diadem. He came looking for it, you see, and I thought he would honour it. I was so _foolish_.”

“He tricked you,” Pallas says softly.

“How can you know this?” says Draco. “You’re a—”

“My ghost,” says Eleni, “she’s got no one to talk to, but she’s still got some magic left. She gave me her memories so that at least one of us could tell.” She sniffs. “It’ll be in the Come and Go Room, where most lost things go.”

“Thank you,” says Godric. He nods to Winky, who goes to assemble a search squad, then says, “I’ll go talk to Eleni. She’s carried enough guilt in her.”

“Godric,” Salah says as he stands to leave. “That still leaves one last fragment. My locket, Hrodwunn’s diadem...”

“But not my sword,” Godric says quietly. “Boden still has it. That leaves...”

“Helga’s Cup.”

Godric sighs. “Helga’s Cup. We’ll have to send out feelers for it.”

Then he departs. The rest of them are left alone to ponder the implications, but Harry can’t focus. His eyes flit towards Pallas; Eleni’s portrait had left at the same time as Godric. Pallas, like her sister, is dark-haired with grey eyes, but her skin has a tan to it, like she has enjoyed the sun. She looks about an age with Eleni, which must be the result of the age she had been painted at; by Harry’s reckoning, she would be at least a year or two younger.

Pallas weathers his stare with grace. It must be terrible to look at him; he has the same coloration as Idris, and a similar bone structure. All the same, she gazes back neutrally, eyes never straying from his.

“Seven Horcruxes,” Draco mutters. “Voldemort is insane.”

“It is a bit much, yes,” Pallas remarks idly. “The last time I witnessed this sort of thing, the man had split his soul three ways, and one ended up in my husband.”

That stills them, but not for long. Harry asks, “What happened to him? The magician who split his soul?”

Salah is lost in thought, hand rubbing her belly. The baby must be kicking a lot again. Pallas looks them over before she answers.

“Godric and Helga went to the village he was terrorising. From what I’ve heard, neither gave the killing blow, but rather buried the man deep into the ground so no one could hear him screaming.”

Still lost in thought, Salah murmurs, “I hope he’s still screaming.”

***

Sunday, Harry stays inside, too morose to go much of anywhere. The weather is grey and dark, of a mood with him, which is nice and validating. In the morning he invites Ron and Hermione over so he can tell them all the sordid little details of his ‘private lessons’ with Dumbledore, and they _are_ suitably horrified with how utterly horrendous the Gaunt family is.

Not surprising, considering what John Roderick of Gaunt had managed to pull off centuries before.

The _Report_ is truly out with its first edition, too, but Harry can’t bear to look at the family tree and seeing _Merope Riddle_ written there.

“We should go see Hagrid sometime,” Hermione says idly.

Ron, who has just been enjoying the snacks Winky had brought them, chokes. “Whyever for?”

“To _explain_ , Ronald,” Hermione says impatiently. “We haven’t taken his class. I’m sure he’d like to know _why._ It’s not like we hated it…” she bites her lip.

“It’s not like we much liked it either,” Ron mutters.

Hermione sends him a look. “We could go later. Where’s Draco?”

“Gathering intel,” says Harry, “for how many students want tutoring.”

At least one of them is productive today. Harry is still too shaken about yesterday, and after his friends leave, he goes to find Salah. So far, only the diadem has been found, in the Come and Go Room as Eleni had told them. The last remaining one aside from himself and Nagini is Helga’s Cup.

Or, that’s what they currently assume. Neither Godric nor Salah seem to know where it is, and after Eleni’s timely reveal, their collective luck seems to have run out.

As he goes to find his mother, Harry passes the nursery. They haven’t told him yet what the baby’s name will be, but they have at least chosen a pastel purple and gold colour scheme for the nursery. Most things are made from dark wood, with the cot pushed against the wall adjacent to the window, and a rocking chair to its left.

It’s peaceful here. A single black wall glistens with golden dots—a rather daring wall colour for a nursery, but Harry likes it. Sometime in December, he will have a sister. He should think of a gift for her, actually.

A knock at the door alerts him to Godric’s presence. “If you move anything out of place, just remember that Winky knows where you sleep.”

“I haven’t touched anything, I swear,” says Harry. He follows when Godric beckons, laughing.

Something in Harry eases at hearing the sound of it. He’s safe here, not only because it’s Hogwarts but because he has parents who will see to it that nothing happens. The feeling is foreign and jagged, but it’s been settling in him for months now, ever since Salah and Godric had fought Dumbledore over keeping him.

Godric takes him to the master bedroom, where Salah still lounges on their rather massive bed, idly changing the colour of her nails with the tap of her wand.

“Bored already?” Godric asks.

“No,” she says, “Just thinking.” She looks up. “Hello, boys. Come join me.”

Harry crawls onto the bed first and is then promptly sandwiched between parents. It’s a nice and warm place to be, with his head leaning on Salah’s shoulder and Godric half-spooning him like a protective bear.

 _Red-yellow-black._ Each tap is a new colour, mesmerising in their gentle change. Harry could fall asleep to it, and does indeed doze off just a bit, wakes again to see the colour change from mauve to neon green to dark, glittering purple. Salah stills her wand, pleased with the results of her think session.

“Now do mine,” says Godric. “I want to match.”

Salah giggles, but complies; Godric’s nails are promptly glittering, but gold instead of purple. Somehow it _does_ match, and Harry can’t contest the choice when Godric coos happily at his new, fashionable nail colour. It suits him.

“What do I get?” he asks, showing his hands.

Salah eyes his nails. “An entire manicure.” She taps his nails and they become the almost-black green that she had worn last June, with its nice metallic sheen. Harry’s nails _do_ look better—less bitten, evened out, no little tags on the side that hurt if pulled on.

“Oh, we should get one of those,” Godric says. “Just the two of us. Father-and-son bonding time.”

It should sound ludicrous, Harry thinks, two men getting their nails done, but it actually sounds rather nice and relaxing, perhaps among the most normal things Harry has ever gotten to do. Would James have taken him to such a place as a nail salon? Probably not, but Lily would have.

“I’d like that,” he tells Godric.

“I’ll get a foot massage,” Salah says dreamily, “and a pedicure. We should go next weekend; it would be so lovely.”

“Perfect weather, too,” says Godric. “Blue skies with their fluffy white clouds.”

Abruptly, Harry is back under the blue sky over Little Hangleton, with its many hedgerows and little houses in the valley. A path leads to a forest, and the forest has a cottage, and the cottage door has a snake nailed to it.

A hand caresses his hair, pushing the curls away from his face. Another twines its fingers with his, pulling him back to the now.

Salah says, “[A donde fuiste, querido?](-)” Her lips ghost the side of his head, lifting him away from that peaceful, wretched valley.

“Little Hangleton,” he says.

It could have been any village, any valley. It could have been Little Surrey, Privet Drive number 4. It could have been the little boy with round glasses that laboured in the rare hot sun, in the rain. It could have been the boy in the cupboard under the stairs, frail and thin, hoping some distant relative would come for him.

Merope’s eyes had been bruised, in a way—not from fists, but from years of something black and deep. Was it terrible of her to want to be loved, to fantasise about it, to dream it into existence, brew a potion to trap it? Her spindly fingers could have easily found herbs, cut them into pieces, her brow full of sweat as she laboured over the cauldron, all of her hopes and desires distilled into one liquid. She’d only have one chance: the span of six months.

Into the long, waiting silence, Harry says, “They abused her.”

He loathes how small and frail he sounds to his own ears, so utterly incapable of detaching himself from an experience that isn’t even his. It’s what had made Merope into the witch and woman she had been, what had ultimately made Tom Riddle Jr. It hadn’t left her, and it hadn’t left good old Tom either, had it? He’d gone back to the place where his uncle cursed his father, where his mother had been born, to the place where his mother had _suffered_.

“I understand why she did what she did,” Harry says quietly. “It’s not good, but I understand.”

In the end, he can’t even despise her for being Voldemort’s mother, only pity her. Chances are she would have loved her son, perhaps enough that he wouldn’t have needed to become a megalomaniac supervillain who would terrorise the magical world for decades. Life’s just fragile in that way.

***

Monday is a traitor.

For one thing, it arrives. For another, the _Daily Prophet_ still exists, and it wastes no time in darkening Hermione’s plate with its presence, somehow neatly landing there right after she’s picked up her toast for a bite. They all stare at it for several moments before Draco plops down next to Harry, fashionably late as per usual.

“Well then,” Draco says into their stunned silence. “Are we reading that or did the owl make the entire trek for nothing?”

It earns him a glare from Hermione, but Ron at least sees the humour in it. Harry is too busy thinking up arguments on why Hermione should just throw away the entire waste of ink and paper when she brings to their attention the most ludicrous tale to have yet graced their ears.

It goes as follows: “ _‘Stanley Shunpike, conductor on the popular Wizarding conveyance the Knight Bus, has been arrested on suspicion of Death Eater activity. Mr. Shunpike, 21, was taken into custody late last night after a raid on his Clapham home…’_ ”

“Stanley Shunpike?” says Harry. “ _Stan Shunpike,_ ” he leans in, “a _Death Eater?_ ”

“Good God, the Ministry really is fishing,” Draco says, disgusted. “Framing an innocent man whilst they barely report on that Selwyn woman’s trial. Pah!”

“The _Sunday Report_ did write about it,” says Hermione. “But of course the _Prophet_ wouldn’t. She comes from money, she sat in the Wizengamot...can’t have someone like her be reported as committing a crime against a high profile witch, certainly not the mother of all Slytherins.”

They sit with only the din around them for a moment, the buzz of conversation and clanking of silverware, and then they _laugh._

“Mother of all Slytherins,” Harry wipes away a tear. Next to him, Draco is trying his best to find air, and across from them Ron wheezes so hard Harry fears his best mate is actually choking.

“She’d love that,” says Draco.

“Guys,” Hermione says, between giggles, “this is serious.” She schools her face into something more neutral, though she can’t chase away the amusement from her eyes. “They were eager to report Umbridge’s downfall. Now, with the war all but outright declared, the _Prophet_ says not a single peep about Selwyn.”

“It’s about image,” says Draco. “The Ministry can’t have the masses know they had a Death Eater ally in their midst. It would ruin Scrimgeour's chances in the election next week.”

“But Stan Shunpike?” says Ron. “I’m sorry, mate, but that’s as weak a story as I’ve ever seen. _Especially_ when Selwyn’s arrest and trial are right there.”

“Don’t underestimate what people are willing to believe,” Draco tells him. “Especially now. Scrimgeour certainly doesn’t.”

Hermione nods. “I mean, remember last year with Harry? No one had wanted to believe V—” she grimaces, “that Voldemort was back.”

“But they do now!”

“Yes,” she says, sighing, “but we can’t wait around another year for people to remove their heads from....the sand.” She presses her lips together. “It’s why we need counter-narratives like the _Report._ Rather ballsy of them, really,” she throws a look at Amanita. “I hope they’ll be all right.”

Harry would like to see the Death Eaters _try_ , if only for sport, to harm the Floreses. Godric _likes_ them, and he likes the report. He wouldn’t want to be the one to stand in the way of that, but if anyone wants to amuse him for a day…

So Monday is a traitor, but it has promise. Everyone’s read the _Report_ by now, and Amanita preens proudly every time someone congratulates her, as if she is personally responsible for her father’s paper.

Now, if only Harry and Slughorn did not have to exist in the same school, that would have perhaps been for the better. But Monday is indeed a traitor, so Harry runs into the man at the end of his free period, whilst Ron is mid-rant about how impossible Salah is being about all the books and scrolls and whatnot they have to compile, and, really, she should be the one to set the reading material for her class, though to be rather frank Hogwarts’ records are lacking and Ron is _this_ close to just going out into the world to hunt down some books himself—

Harry literally runs into Slughorn. Or rather, his somehow increasingly rotund belly.

“Harry, my boy,” is his next warning, as he recovers.

There’s exactly one person allowed to call Harry ‘my boy’, and it is not Professor Horace Slughorn, but Harry’s not about to start that little fit right now.

“Professor.”

“You’ve received my invitation, no doubt, to the club,” says Slughorn. “I’d like to extend another invitation for this Saturday. I’ve managed to gather quite the group—McLaggen, Zabini, Miss Weasley with her rather eccentric companion, oh, Melinda Bobbin, of course—her family owns a chain of apothecaries, and of course Miss Granger, if she would be so kind as to grace me with her presence.”

“Uh,” says Harry, trying to think his way out of this mess.

“I’ll expect Mr Malfoy there as well, of course.”

“Why don’t you invite Draco yourself?” Harry begins to say, but Slughorn is already on his way, the sea of students parting as if it were Moses himself in their midst, leading his people to Israel.

“Did he just call Luna Ginny’s...companion?” Ron asks, watching the sea close itself once more. It’s a smooth process.

“Just,” Harry almost laughs, “girls being companions. Nothing to see here.”

Best Ginny were not to hear that; the sheer obliviousness would probably set off something feral in her, and she truly does have a mean Bat-Bogey hex ready.

They’re halfway through the door to the Defence classroom, Ron already venting his History frustrations to an equally frazzled Hermione whoblooks like her soul never leftAncient Runes, that they cross paths with the seventh years. This in itself is not remarkable—it will occur every time they have Defence this year—safe for the fact that Cormac McLaggen spots Harry, and thinks this noteworthy.

“So, Potter,” he says, smug in a truly terrible way, “joined a troupe of poofs, I see.” Some chitter follows.

Ron stops mid-rant to eye McLaggen as if the insult had been directed to him personally, whilst Hermione just frowns. Harry looks at McLaggen with a complete lack of comprehension, glances at Draco for an answer and receives none. As far as Harry knows, he’s been part of the Queer Kids Squad since last year, unless he has to pass his membership by Ginny and Luna every year, but they would likely inform him of such rules beforehand, and not through _McLaggen_.

So, “I’m sorry?”

“The nails.” McLaggen smirks, waving his fingers.

With a single glance at his nails, Harry looks back at McLaggen, still uncomprehending. By now McLaggen seems to have gotten the sense that he’s not as funny as he thinks he is, and that some people are rather more annoyed that he’s blocked the doorway, putting them all in danger of being late.

“Please, do not clog the doorway,” Godric calls from within.

“What’s with you,” another seventh-year says when McLaggen still doesn’t make any hint that he will _move._

“Potter’s gotten a manicure,” McLaggen announces to anyone with hearing.

Exasperated now, Harry decides to respond, “Well, no, I haven’t; my mum did this for me. But now that we’re on the topic, yeah, I’ll go have a manicure. I hear they’re nice, actually.”

“Your mum’s dead,” McLaggen says nastily.

“He got adopted by Professors Slytherin and Gryffindor, you dunce,” says the same seventh-year as before. “Or did you not read the _Report?_ Now, _move_.”

She pushes, hard, so that they all nearly topple onto one another into the hallway. McLaggen doesn’t quite have time to recover properly, nor give any kind of response, not that Harry and co. stick around to find out what other nuggets of wisdom he wishes to impart on them.

“Why is everyone so concerned with how I express myself and who I date,” Harry says, irritated. He throws his bag on his table.

“Dunno, mate,” says Ron. “Maybe now that Malfoy’s switched careers, they’re all vying to become the next big bully.”

That’s all good and well until Ron goes and relays this to Draco, though it’s Harry who, still annoyed, brings up the incident.

Draco scoffs at Ron’s assertion. “If this is all they have to offer, then I sadly must return to my previous career. Where’s the art, the panache, the finesse? What a sad day for bullies.”

“You could teach a class,” Ron says before either Harry or Hermione can stop him from implanting this fresh and hot new terrible idea in Draco’s brain.

At least their dinner is served before the fear can truly settle in, and Ron can continue on blithely unaware of what horror he may have possibly just unleashed upon the masses of Hogwarts. Harry eyes Draco from time to time to see what sprouts, but aside from some pretty smiles, Draco remains harmless. For now.

Of course today’s the day Draco and Hermione present him with a list of kids who want to be tutored, and Ron’s ‘ _You should teach a class’_ becomes a terrifying reality.

“So, Draco, Neville and I will take the Saturdays,” Hermione says. “And you can have the Sundays with Ron and Luna.”

“What?” says Ron from where he’d been dozing off. “Why me?”

“Because,” Hermione says pointedly, “you’re not the only one with dyslexia, nor the only one with a disability, and we figured the younger students could benefit from someone who understands first-hand what they’re going through.”

“ _And_ you’re studying the things,” Harry points out. Ron’s folded arms cover a book on non-magical psychiatry, because despite all his complaining about lack of free time, Ron has somehow wrangled his own specific interest into their busy schedules. Mr Weasley must be delighted with Ron’s interest in ‘Muggle’ things.

Ron slumps down and hides his face in his arms, but they can still see his very red ears poke out. Harry gives him a little pat.

***

“You may have wondered,” Salah begins her next lesson, “why I asked you to look for all these records.” She smiles indulgently as some people nod. “Well, wonder no more, for we have arrived at our conclusion.”

This is the most eagerly attentive Harry has ever seen students in a class of History of Magic. It’s almost sad; if anything, Salah has proven, by her mere continued existence, how important history is to a people, but they’ve sat through this class for five years and either played silly little games, or slept.

“What you’ve found here is extensive,” she says. “However, I care more for quality than quantity. What I want you to do over the course of the next month,” she looks at them pointedly, “Is to select some texts—two or three will do—and tell me the following: who wrote it, what they wrote about, why they wrote it, what narrative it creates, and who benefits from this narrative. This is not only to teach you text analyses, but also to teach you that history is a narrative, and what you know depends on what the writers of a certain narrative want you to know and think. Yes?”

Lavender has raised her hand. “We have a month for this?”

“You will need it.”

Her subsequent lecture enraptures them for the remainder of the hour, something Binns could never have dreamed to achieve. Salah impresses upon them the importance of their particular position in society, how objectivity can be subjective if one does not take care to realise that everything someone sees and experiences happens from their standpoint. Thus, it will be interpreted through the lens of their own understanding. Harry writes so much his hand is cramping before the end of the hour, but it’s worth it.

Theoretic framework can limit or broaden the scope of research and results, is the last thing he manages to write before he needs a break. Fortunately, it’s the last class for the day, and they’re free to wander away to find dinner.

“If Double History on Thursday is like this, I’ll die,” he tells Hermione on the way out.

She is too dazed to respond directly. “Two or three texts, she said. How am I going to narrow it down to two or three?”

“Nevermind that, I’m starving,” says Ron.

Draco eyes him sympathetically. “You know, Weasley, for once I think I understand you.”

And then the heavens sprung open and the angels sang, except they didn’t. They should have, if God and the angels truly knew what the world is currently up to, but Harry can deal with the disappointment.

At least Hermione understands. For the brief second she’s not in her own tortured History bubble.

“Love your nails, Potter,” some random passerby in Hufflepuff colours says. It’s probably earnest; Hufflepuffs don’t lie, right? None of the three-hundred and seventy-seven times thus far has seemed dishonest, not that Harry knows what to do with that either. It’s better than derision.

“How many times does that make it?” Ron asks idly.

“Forty-eight,” Draco says, eyes narrowed at the offending Hufflepuff.

Harry turns his head so quickly he cracks something in his neck. “Are you, perhaps, jealous?” This is a valid question.

“No,” Draco responds archly. “I’m suspicious.”

“Right.”

Now Draco looks at him with narrowed eyes, as if he can sniff out that sneaky little thing in Harry that doesn’t believe a single metre of this supposed line between jealousy and suspicion. Harry’s tone certainly hadn’t had anything to reveal, but Draco ‘Difficult’ Malfoy isn’t going to sit with that.

“Oh, you know I’d never cheat on you,” Harry says gamely.

Ron jumps in, “You’d better not.”

Even Hermione comes down from her think-tower to look at Ron in surprise. “Are you invested in their relationship?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve rather been enjoying Hogwarts without Malfoy making our lives just that tiny bit more unbearable.”

To his credit, Draco doesn’t even seem upset by the proclamation; he just laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for a confession.
> 
> This story miiiight have gotten a LITTLE out of hand and is running, uh, a bit long. My options are thus: 1) keep this installment one piece and have it run longer than the others, or 2) split it at a nice place, with the latter half potentially being shorter.
> 
> The benefit of doing the latter is that I'll be able to set a posting schedule for this current arc, since it's nearly done! The downside is that then you'll have to wait a while for the second half, since I haven't actually started it yet. The former option doesn't have any strict benefit; it just means I'll be posting very, very slowly, and very very irregularly.
> 
> As you are the readers, you get to choose!


	5. The Sacrifices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, life just hurts, and we remind each other that it's worth the sacrifices.

The end of September brings the election, an event that stretches the Friday it takes place on to an unbearable length. Some of the staff are gone during lunch, and others at dinner. Seventh year students go in Auror-escorted batches during their free hours. An air of nervous anticipation hangs over the entire castle, and it stays stretches on well past dinner time.

It’s...tense. Some seventh-years even decide to not go at all, fearing they could be attacked. Harry almost can’t blame them, really; large groups of people gathering are bound to attract Death Eater attacks. Still, he can’t help the acidic feel of resentment at all those who stay safely, not when  _ he _ hasn’t yet the right to vote and depends on others to do it  _ for _ him.

“What do you think the chances are,” he asks Hermione. She still reads the papers, albeit with an air of increasing distaste.

“Of what?” says she, nose-deep in the evening  _ Prophet _ . “Madam Bones winning? Well, I can’t tell. The wizarding world hasn’t cottoned on to exit polls yet.”

This is by far the quietest Hogwarts dinner in all of Harry’s years. Returning seventh-years tell of ambushes and quick battles fought on the street, their voices hushed for the sake of already frightened first years. Some even return with singed clothes and mean-looking scratches.

On his way to the fifth floor, Harry intercepts Tonks as she comes down from the stairs. She raises her arm to wave at him, then trips over what is probably one very unfortunate dust mote. Harry catches her.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, laughing. “Nice to see you, Harry.”

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

Tonks points at herself. “Auror.” She laughs. “I’ve been put on Hogwarts surveillance, and today we were on escort-duty. I just brought your mum back.”

“Great,” Harry says, grinning. “See you around, then?”

“See you around, Harry!”

He watches her go, if only to make certain that Tonks makes it to the ground unharmed. How had she survived seven years of Hogwarts without injury? But then, that begs the next question: had she?

No matter. The good thing is that she  _ had _ survived long enough to become an Auror, and through her work, they can have marginally safer elections in times of war.

Marginally.

The Saturday morning  _ Prophet _ loudly announces SCRIMGEOUR ELECTED MINISTER OF MAGIC DESPITE LOW TURNOUT. Harry glares at the front page, where Scrimgeour stares back imperiously, hands clasped behind his back.

“Damn,” he says. It’s all he’s going to allow himself to say. If he opens his mouth for anything other than breakfast toast, he’s not going to be able to stop the tirade of curses going through his head.

“Indeed,” Salah says from behind the paper. “Dramatically low turnout—I’m surprised they even made the call at all.”

Godric snorts. “They must’ve figured they weren’t going to get more people out to vote a second time, with there being a war. It’s a safety hazard they won’t risk twice. As is, the Aurors had a rather rough time of it.”

“Some attacks here and there, but nothing big,” Salah surmises from the article. She folds it up and sets it aside. “Well, this outcome is disappointing, though hardly a surprise. Scrimgeour is popular despite the...ineffectiveness he’s shown thus far.”

For a brief second, Harry opens his mouth. Then, instead of speaking, he bites into his toast and chews. He can feel Draco eying him, but he’s not going to say anything. Not yet.

“You don’t have to inflict such violence on your breakfast,” says Draco.

“No, I could yell instead,” Harry says, surprised for a moment by his own restraint, “because that worked  _ so well _ last year.” Last year they’d had  _ Fudge _ and the demoness Umbridge herself, not that he thinks Scrimgeour is going to be all that much better. Not if he thinks arresting people like  _ Stan Shunpike _ is how he ought to handle things, completely wasting time and resources that could be spent looking for and arresting  _ actual _ Death Eaters.

Really, the only decently competent thing to happen under Scrimgeour is Lady Selwyn receiving a life sentence for attempted murder. Even then, it wasn’t his direct doing; Madam Bones had overseen that trial.

_ Is the ministry competent _ , he’d asked some months ago. The fact that that question still can’t be answered with a resounding  _ yes _ , makes Harry rather want to tear out his hair. Fortunately for his scalp, he actually likes what his hair looks like, well-kept and all.

So instead of tearing it out, he throws all of his energy and frustration into Saturday’s Quidditch training. The team’s shaping up well, and this year around no stragglers from other Houses try to distract them with animosity.  _ Not yet, at least. _ The lack of hostile Slytherins surprises him the most, though perhaps it shouldn’t. It could very well mean that Salah and Godric’s words and example are finally getting through.

Today he watches the team from the ground. Jimmy Peakes and Ritchie Coote are becoming good Beaters, though looking at them working towards coordination sends a pang through Harry’s chest; he misses Fred and George. Nothing to be done about that except grow used to it. Most of the team is new, and it’s Harry’s job to prepare them for the upcoming games.

“Watch where you send those Bludgers!” he calls to Coote. “You hit your own team and I’ll have you answer to Madam Pomfrey.” Harry still remembers the Skele-Gro—terrible taste, itchy feeling, and no short amount of pain. “Keep your loops tight, Ron! They can’t score if you’ve covered all the angles.”

“Hey, Harry,” Ginny calls. “Who’s going to yell instructions at you?”

“Draco!” He says, laughing.

It’s not that far-fetched an idea. Draco is by far the best seeker in the year. At least the Slytherins have seen sense to keep him on their team, not that any of them seem happy about it. Draco had come back with bruises a few times, which had only stopped when Salah had gone to Severus, and (as Draco had told it), the Head of Slytherin had then made a rare appearance on the pitch, jaw clenched, and had whispered Urquhart into submission.

“Demelza!” Harry shouts, voice sharp. “Keep your body tight and compact. Katie, you’re doing great!”

Laughing, Katie salutes him. He worries less about her and Ginny than the rest of the team. Ginny and Katie seem to have struck up a nice friendship, which does the team a world of good. Demelza keeps the two younger boys busy, which is an improvement from when they’d been distracted by every loose strand of her hair, and Harry emphatically does  _ not _ want to know anything about that particular arrangement.

He calls an end to their session just before lunch, giving them enough to shower and head to lunch. It’s the only time in the weekend that Harry goes out to the Great Hall, and it’s certainly the busiest time to even think of existing there.

A small group of Slytherins has now permanently attached itself to Draco, chief among them Elicia. They look comfortable at their end of the table, and the glares from older Slytherins with obvious sympathies don’t seem to reach them. Harry has steadily accrued his own little posse, his a tad more diverse—three Slytherins, two Hufflepuffs, and one Ravenclaw he shares with Hermione.

He looks across the hall and spots Luna. She has her own gaggle of Ravenclaws, Gryffindors and even a singular Slytherin. Her corner of the table looks less lonely now, and all of them stare at her in awe as she explains the concept of Nargles.

“It’s crowded here,” Ron remarks, mock-irritated. It doesn’t quite match the smile in his eyes.

“House unity,” Harry responds.

***

The hours after lunch are his own. Harry takes off to the fifth floor quarters; most of his homework’s done in the in-between hours, at least so that he has  _ some _ weekend to speak of. Tomorrow he’s tutoring his morning away, and the rest of the afternoon is for what’s left of essays to finish.

Draco’s off to the Quidditch pitch with the Slytherin team. He’s bound to come back in a right mood; things aren’t just difficult for him in the common room. Still, he’s the best Seeker they have and really at least half of what makes Slytherin entertaining to compete against, if not Hogwarts Quidditch on the whole. The spike of  _ worry _ travels up from the pit of Harry’s stomach to his forehead like a warning.

At the moment of his arrival, the sitting room holds Godric sat cross-legged on the settee as Bronach quietly reports to him. A string of pale green yarn disappears somewhere under the chair, and Godric’s fingers make quick work of something round and very much baby-sized.

“—last seen by Caractacus Burke, of Borgin and Burke’s,” Bronach finishes.

“Of course,” Godric murmurs. His face has a grim set to it. “Well, thank you Bronach. Do send my regards to the people of Gryposcire. I miss them dearly.”

Bronach smiles, gives a little bow, and then pops out. Finally, Godric looks up at Harry, smiling broadly as Harry approaches.

“Hey, dad,” says Harry.

“Hello, son.” Godric sounds chipper despite the somberness of the previous subject, whatever that had been. “Come join me.” He pats the empty space beside him.

Harry obliges. “Are you thinking of buying some antiques?” he asks. Godric fiddles a little with his little teal project; it looks like some sort of cap.

“Oh, no,” says Godric. “I already  _ am _ an antique.” He laughs. “No, I had Bronach look into where the locket and the cup might be. Bronach worked for old families, the kind who would know valuable heirlooms if they came across them.”

Hopeful, Harry perks up. “You’ve found something?”

“We’ve no clues yet as to the locket’s whereabouts,” Godric says. “The cup appears more promising at the moment; someone in our network recalled a Hepzibah Smith claiming to be a descendant of Helga’s—patently false, of course, as Helga had no children of her own. But it is a promising lead, so I sent Bronach to ask around. This Madam Smith liked to collect antiques.”

“Ah,” says Harry. “So she may have the cup.”

“There’s just one, tiny, problem,” Godric says. “Hepzibah Smith was murdered in ‘61. They accused her House-Elf of poisoning her.”

“...but you don’t think the House-Elf did it,” Harry infers.

“No. But that  _ is _ the information we have at the moment.”

They sit with that between then, Godric’s eyes cast down as he continues crocheting. It’s rather soothing to look at, and allows the cogs in Harry’s mind to spin pleasantly as they parse this new information. If they could find Hepzibah Smith’s collection, they could find the cup and be rid of it. He’s not keen on destroying precious historical artifacts, but Tom Riddle had seen to that long before anyone had had the inkling to stop him.

With the cup gone, that would leave the locket, Harry and one pit viper named Nagini. At any opportune moment, Nagini could be felled. Personally, Harry would like to live to see the day after he’s rid of the vile little fragment that has its claws in him, and that day draws ever nearer.

Godric looks at him sideways. “Is your scar bothering you?”

Harry blinks at the sudden question. Belatedly, he realises he’s rubbing his forehead and must’ve been doing that for a bit now. He lowers his hand, says, “No?”, and after a beat, “Well, yes. I think.” He blinks again, quickly. “It feels strange?”

“Has it been acting up in other ways?”

Harry thinks about it. Aside from an odd, slight pressure, nothing’s really been out of sorts lately. The only  _ other _ thing he can think up that would fall under ‘acting up’ happened months ago. “Well, the morning I finished the Moly potion, the thing—the fragment got my attention. Dragged me down into my own mind, I suppose. We had a little chat.”

“I beg your pardon?” says Godric. He stops crocheting to look at Harry with a deep frown. “Why am I only hearing about this now?”

Sheepish, “I...forgot? I had better things to do. Like ask you to adopt me.”

“Harry,” Godric says grimly. “You can’t neglect to tell us these things. Soul fragments can be vicious; they’ll do anything to survive.”

“I know, but—”

“No ‘buts’, Harry. This thing can kill you. It  _ will _ kill you if you’re not vigilant enough.” Godric’s lips stretch out to a thin line. “What did the fragment say to you?”

“It—not much, really?” Harry grimaces, trying to remember. “It just wanted my attention, just wanted to taunt me, telling me that it’s better. It—it showed me a memory—” come to think of it now, that had been terrible. A strange prickly feeling of vertigo spreads across Harry’s entire body. In a whisper, he says, “it showed me my mum. And I realised then that it’s not  _ my _ memory. That I don’t remember her at all.”

His eyes are leaking. Godric lays his yarn aside and embraces him completely. Harry says, “Then it showed me the graveyard again. I didn’t want to be there, so I pushed the memory away. I could  _ feel _ the—I could feel it. I could see it in the mirror, too, just for a second. It does want to kill me. It said so.”

He shivers, but Godric’s arms warm him, steady him enough that he can exist in this cocoon and feel nothing but love. Harry can’t imagine a world where he doesn’t have  _ this _ , doesn’t want to believe that his life might’ve taken a different path.

“Keep clearing your mind every night, all right?” Godric squeezes Harry’s hand. “And if this happens again, you tell us. I don’t care if you’re in the middle of class and have to walk out. You come straight to me or to Salah. This thing is trying to manipulate you because it is afraid. I refuse to let it have you.”

They let go, and Godric kisses Harry’s brow. Tired from the whirlwind of emotions, Harry rests his head on Godric’s shoulder and  _ stays _ , watching his father pick up the yarn again and work it into neat little loops, stitching together the cutest little cap one can imagine.

“That’s so...relaxing,” Harry mutters. Godric finishes the round and cuts the thread, pulling the remaining bit through a loop to make a knot. The cap is tiny, with a single beige row for contrast.

“Would you like to learn?” Godric asks. “It could help with clearing your mind.”

Crocheting, as it turns out is both as easy and far more difficult than it looks. It takes Harry eight tries to understand how to make a starting knot, and then what feels like years to understand how to hold the yarn in one hand and the needle in the other. Still, he whoops with joy when he has his first row of chains, and then nearly weeps when he has to do simple stitches.

“How do you do that?” He complains, staring at Godric’s hands as they continue working at great speed. “How are you so  _ fast _ .”

“I may have a couple of centuries on you.” Godric chuckles, glancing at the mess of yarn that Harry has made. He pauses, then explains, “See here? You made three doubles in one place here, but we want just one double per stitch. Here, I’ll show you again.”

Outside of Quidditch, this might be just about the most stressful activity that Harry has ever engaged in. By the third row, he thinks he finally has the hang of it, and it looks less messy and more deliberate. The worst feeling, though, is when he touches the metal needle and finds his fingers now carry static.

This is the state in which Draco finds them when the Slytherin returns. He comes through the door as Harry had predicted an hour earlier: in a right mood, brows furrowed, lips curled into a sneer to rival all sneers. Draco still wears the greens and blacks of his Quidditch attire, and his hair isn’t damp from the showers. This does not bode well.

“Draco?” Harry asks tentatively. He sets down his yarn and needle.

“Urquhart took me off the team,” Draco says. His sudden smile is too sharp. “It seems I’ve been replaced.”

“What,” says Harry.

Draco snorts. “That’s what  _ I _ said, too. Didn’t get much of an answer out of that smarmy prick, did I?” Then, with mounting irritation, “Who does that rot-brained fiend think he is anyway? He’s  _ new _ ; Severus only appointed him because he’s the  _ least _ imbecilic option—”

Frowning, Harry ask, “Why didn’t he appoint you?”

“Because  _ that _ would have gone over well,” Draco snaps. “I’m surprised I wasn’t...retired earlier. What a joke.”

Then Draco storms off, broom still clutched in his hand. Harry is left frozen on the settee, his heart pounding. Draco is barely welcome in his own House; it stands to reason that they would sack him from the team, the fools. Only the first and second years show Draco the respect he’s due.

He almost stands, but Godric holds him by the elbow, a firm grip and an even firmer shake of the head. “I will speak with him,” says Godric. “Seeing you right now will only remind him of everything he is losing.”

That hurts. He had never asked Draco to sacrifice anything for him, never would have dreamed of it. Still, Harry has to watch Godric go, understanding far too keenly that his father is right.

A stab of pain goes through his forehead, just at the centre. He grits his teeth and starts a new row.

***

Later, after dinner, he seeks out Draco.

Now, this is not necessarily the most intelligent move on his part, but Harry does not claim to be a smart man. The last time he’d gone to Draco when his boyfriend had been upset, they’d had a fight. Harry has been rightly sorted into Gryffindor on this count alone.

He knocks first, but lacks the patience to wait. Draco whirls around, hair loose and damp from the shower, the ends still curling. His entire body is rigid, arms crossed, and he looks Harry over with a neutral, albeit foreboding gaze, dressed from head to toe in black. Turtlenecks have always suited him in the worst possible way.

“Privacy,” Draco says sharply. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the concept.”

“I may have,” Harry responds quietly. He closes the door behind him. “I wanted to see how you were. You didn’t speak much over dinner.”

A nod, arch and dismissive. “I’ve not much to say. My day has been rotten from the start, as you are undoubtedly aware.”

This is cold. This is the Draco that will poke and stab until he hits the right nerve, a tender spot, an old, perhaps festering wound. Harry has little experience with this side of Draco; Salah would usually handle this, dull the pointed edge into something less likely to cut deep.

So Harry meets him head on. “Are you going to talk about what’s bothering you, or are you just going to pretend that my being here is a problem?”

That seems to bring Draco’s ire down a notch, face twitching slightly, shoulders relaxing. He circles Harry, which Harry goes along with, stepping quietly in half a circle like a little dance. If dances  _ were _ anything like this, Harry would be so much less prone to tripping over a grain of dirt or a single thread of the softest carpet.

“What’s bothering me?” Draco says. “What’s bothering me, today, let’s see. My family has left me, my House rejects me...who am I now? Your boyfriend? Your companion? An accessory?”

“No,” Harry says, steadfast. “You are Draco Malfoy. You are your mother’s son, and she has not abandoned you, just as  _ my _ mother did not abandon me. She has put you in the care of the most powerful magicians in all of history. She has risked herself for you. At least honour her for that.”

_ There _ . It’s in the little raise of Draco’s chin, the one that says that he’s listened, that he’s considering. Something akin to distress crosses his face, but it’s quick and gone the second after. They stand like that, in the middle of the room, the night already settled outside. Draco bows his head, hair falling forward and shielding half of it. A little shake of his head is his only response.

Harry breathes out. He had chosen one difficult person to fall for, and still he doesn’t regret it.  _ Keeps my little heart beating. _

Then Draco steps forward, light and quick. “Why are you always like this?” He says at last. He pokes at Harry’s chest with a force that has him take a step back, calf touching the bed.

“Wha—”

“Oh, shut up.” Draco pushes in earnest now. “Piss off. You—your beautiful face, always so earnest, so forthright. I hate that. I hate you.” Clear eyes, grey and angry, yet so, so soft. “Do you understand? I love you. I  _ love _ you.”

It’s incredible what words can do—it’s incredible what  _ Draco _ can do with them, and yet Harry understands so  _ profoundly _ that he can barely express it. Draco is a strange creature, one of contradictions, one that is volatile and full of wiles—intensely  _ human _ in all of it, his heart unmasked in this moment.

Slowly, Harry cups Draco’s face in his hands. He’d like to hear the words again, he’d like for them not to be just an echo in his ears, but he doesn’t know how to  _ ask. _ He’s supposed to be the brave one, the bold one, but now he just stares at Draco, the stormy grey eyes, the fall of his blond hair, the flutter of his lashes.

Harry leans in—

—their lips touching, the tenderness of it defying the violence of Draco’s words, but Harry can’t ask for anything other than  _ this _ , the sweetness—

_ Devastating _ . He holds Draco’s face gingerly in his hands, his fingertips almost static with the sensation. This isn’t their first kiss, not even their second, but it is one that Harry will forever cherish, one that leaves him bereft when they part for air, still holding each other.

Harry smiles against Draco’s cheek. “You are  _ impossible. _ ”

_ Finally _ , a laugh. It shakes them both, continuing as they kiss, until a light touch makes Draco produce a  _ noise _ that sends a thrill up Harry’s spine, drawing a groan from him, too.

They look at each other. The pupils of Draco's eyes are blown wide, making the grey but a thin, silvery line. Somewhere, distantly, Harry imagines his eyes must look similar, and if he could pull Draco any closer, he would. He would.

Instead they climb onto the bed, the wide, soft bed—side by side first, but then Draco pushes Harry down, straddling him so he can’t move. There’s a light desperation now, a heat that has built up for months and refuses to go away now. Harry wants to feel  _ skin _ , and so does Draco.

It’s a matter of giving  _ in _ , and they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a couple of things:
> 
> 1) I've decided to keep this installment in one piece, but it'll likely have two halves. My initial plan was to finish the first half and post it on a schedule but:
> 
> 2) I'm not doing well. Due to covid-19, I'm barely working and have very little money. The stress of that and what little work I still have are currently making it hard for me to focus on writing for fun. I've noticed that thinking about this fic stresses me out even more (I'll elaborate in a moment), so I'm going to take an indefinite hiatus. I'm not abandoning this! I'm just postponing work on it until I feel less threatened by poverty and my own impostor syndrome.
> 
> 3) I'd like to emphasise here that any similarities with Of A Linear Circle by deadcat are likely accidental. Some references are on purpose, but even I can't tell which is which anymore. It's causing me to be extremely anxious & demotivated. I've caught several similarities in future chapters so I really just want to underline that it's not all on purpose and I'm not intentionally stealing anything from deadcat. I've actually stopped reading the fic (until I finish writing my own mess) to avoid any more accidental copycatting in the second half of this.
> 
> Thank you for all your comments and kind words up til now! You've truly made me feel appreciated, which has greatly helped me even reach this point in fic-writing. Hopefully these times of plague and pestilence are treating you better than they are treating me.


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